Death of a Vagrant
Death of a Vagrant
I am your mother, hold out your hand
Trace the lines of fate, tragic, pre-planned
You’re exhausted and empty, tired and cold
Fingers yellow with smoke, clothes smell of mould,
Frail body so white, with face so tanned
Begging for scraps, the life of the damned
You do not judge, but are cruelly measured
Your memories of her, still secretly treasured
Now I am here, it is time to go
I am your mother
You grew up fast, you grew up strong
Your head held high, your stride long,
How you have changed, my son, now sadly reviled
Hold on tight now - my lost and found child
I am here to take you to home.
I am your mother.
Melinda Harris
June 2009
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