Entry for the MOTHER SAID with Refractory Rhymes Poetry Contest: Sponsored by: Suzette Richards
“You’ll live,” my mother prompts; above my screams, which pierced the air with strident oomph; she, bandaging my wounds. It happened as I traipsed the woods; I fell amongst a pile of jagged rocks whilst reaching for a gem, just glimpsed. It was my birthday, eighth; or maybe it was ninth, and I had always dreamt to find a gem so scarce. “Now look, your pants are spoilt,” she said, without much warmth. I knew she wasn’t angry, just a little anxious. New pants, with money scarce was for her a problem; sewing machine - zigzag soon, the hole was nothing!
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