To my Mother, Ill in Hospital
The mind has its guards.
It cannot be reckoned –
I cannot tell
how part of each dull moment wishes you well.
Words cannot express
a light thought-flame that slips the guards
in joy of knowing you.
I would my words could bring you
a token of happiness.
For in a card-game
a flare of diamonds met the eye.
But the mind has its guards.
Sudden delight is unreckoned.
Words are a lie.
Let that instant then surpass this rhyme
and carry a token, lit on through its own time –
and a card-picture excel
where poor words do not tell –
gathering the shine of dull moments
a flare of diamonds –
so Mother I pick out my love for you unreckoned
yet more than the truth of years, an instant of flame –
even in a shoddy second
in a desultory game of cards.