She remember'd me and began to weep.
All night, she did not sleep.
She is growing old and ill.
But she does not think the pain she feels;
She thinks about me, her little boy,
Who she gives education instead of toy.
'I want him to make merit
But my ill health wants it incomplete.'
.
'Mother, I know it's never be fun.
The clutch of poverty and its bludgeonings,
Because of me you trade your belongings,
But the battle is almost won.
I know your limbs are growing wane
But your toils shall not be in vain.'
This was all I sadly could declare
As my eyes blink'd in droplets of tear.
.
...september 30,2012
Joseph Oladehinde Ibikunle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-mother-s-bed/
