My September Blues Poem by GEORGE AMADI

My sweet mother, every morning, bright and early,
At an altar her children and wards led in prayer,
After which, behind every ear scrubbed clean.
Dressed and fed, each, a happy song singing,
On the way to school wended, as happy as a lark.

As busy as a bee till sun-down, Mom by a smart few
Trusted was only intricate trinket cast in gold to stock
At her lucrative Tom Jones shopping centre end,
Where she, fabric also, to a select clientele, sold.

Of her memorable days, enough cannot be said
But Saturday Derby stood out as an exception
In more ways than one, when she, on horses
Bets placed, raking in a fortune on a good day.

Mother’s story incomplete ever would be, if untold
Remains that street-wise lady’s unparalleled knack
For staking good money on a thank-God-its-Friday
Night pools betting featuring EPL teams as pawns.

But all too soon, one year to be exact, after she,
A rare gem, her eldest child off to university sent,
Recall if I may, ill, alas, fell and to hospital taken was.

With no light at the end of the tunnel in Sixty-Three,
Until her September Eleven death my blues became,
Ebeke’s cheerful countenance not once wore a frown;
Although, then, sad days had grown into sad weeks.