The Little Mother

The poker, busy, prods the burning embers
Smoke snakes up the chimney with the sparks
She sits and stares and thinks of past Decembers
The wind howls; a dog joins in, and barks.

Her man is at the pub; he won’t be too long
The children are in bed; she hears them snore
She listens for him singing an old love song,
As he staggers, drunk and happy, to the door.

She looks older than her years, the little mother
Each of her four children brought her pain
And soon they’ll have a sister, or a brother
Her body is distended, once again.

But though the night is cold, and she feels listless
She knows that help will come from up above
When Jesus comes to Earth again this Christmas
He’ll fill her home with happiness and love.

Dabbler