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The Grampound Times
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Edition 47

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Readers of “The Grampound Times” will know that the magazine is not complete without a poem from Cornwall’s DAVID PROWSE - I love his work! As I prepare this edition we have just passed Mothers Day - the following poem is therefore particularly appropriate. If you enjoy it why not consider purchasing David’s three little published books of poems “Call of the Wild”, “Say One for Me”, and “Poems for the Early Bird”.(Ed.)

MOTHER'S TIME
by David Prowse

It only took a crocus or a daffodil in bloom
And mum was like a little girl reborn
Restored within her spirit to the bright and bonny child
Who’d skip[ed among the thistle and the thorn.

It was not the end of winter and you couldn’t call it spring
But it brought a glimpse of nature’s willing worth
Its cheery faced defiance to the frizzle of the frost
And its answer to the chilling of the earth.

And so we called it Mother’s time, a harbinger of hope
Which had the power of symphonies and song
It made the footsteps lighter and the world a better place
As Mother seemed to do her whole life long.

If bobbing heads and petals had possessed the power to speak
And if they’d had the option of a choice
For empathy and passion which would dignify their cause
They would have put their faith in Mothers voice.

She had the same resilience, the same resourceful depths
Which winter robins seize upon to sing
Among the barren branches, there would always be a perch
And always there would be another spring.

In Mother’s eyes, each random bud that held itself aloft
Put all that she believed upon display
Providing proof that underneath a landscape shorn of life
Tiny miracles were happening every day.

That was her philosophy, whenever shadows fell
Or disaster found despairing depths to plumb
She’d lift her head and jut her chin and wipe away the tears
Then assure us there were better days to come.

Now I look down on a crocus almost buried in the grass
And I recognise the message it implies
That sometimes we must take on trust the things we cannot see
For the soul is more perceptive than the eyes.

There’s a tinge across the treetops, tiny springs among the boughs
With the promise of a splendour yet to be
It’s a time without a title but it hardly needs a name
It always will be Mother’s time to me.