For Nick Victor



Our mothers pass and we find

The unquestioning moment

In which the pulse of love seeks connection With the founding code of the heart.


Our hands claim the prize

That they bestowed on us,

                        Growing for them;

Returned, as they leave us


We touch their face

And read age.

Theirs was the beauty we chase.

Theirs is the place our life honours


Our blessed mothers

Shaping both the heart

And the face.


In the books our lives write

The mothers become the true authors.


Where now goes our story

If they can no longer read our next page?




David Erdos 28th March 2019


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