Mother Of Sons Poem by David Lewis Paget

The great themes are ended,
Too well and soon,
Not one I mended me
All in my afternoon.

I lay once conjured
In love where she lay,
All thoughts of causes then
Slipped them away.

Crabgrass and thistletop
Is all I have left me;
Not so, she comes now,
My woman, she mends me.

Faithful, she steals from
The web of my weavings,
Back-lit at dusklight
She picks at my leavings.

Storms at my tempests
And laps at my waters,
My mother of sons,
My dear lover of daughters.

Walks with me gently now
All in the night’s cold
That I may be with her still,
When we grow old.

12 November 1984