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Poetry Pleases: The Old Mother

Caroline Glyn's poem concerns end-days and rebirth.

Out of the grip of gaunt and rotten death
her eyes opened, blue
as summer, and her mess of fallen flesh
grew sweet with colour,
creased as a new thing, and her russet lips
opened and crowed.
"She's going to rally!"- then we understood.
I climbed on the bed,
cross-legged on the pillow, gently took her,
as young as myth,
into my arms, her head settling down
between my thighs,
and she crowed again, softly, and I felt
the shy quiver run.
So I held her there, and easy as growing
gave her birth.


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