Matriarch       

 
Loveless, yet love was all she thought about:

Why others did not love her as they should.

Her husband by his death had slammed right out

Of their delightful family life. She could

Not understand her children - all ingrates,

Who married badly; worst, that favourite son,

Whose wife was wicked and whose frozen states

Of fury frightened her. What had she done,

Who always meant the best, to suffer so?

She asked and asked. And that well-watered face

Showed off the rock-cliffs of a mother’s woe.

But no one answered. No one dared to trace

For her those stony conduits that guide

Delusive rinsings from the den of pride.