Turn Hand make Fashion
The cooking oil ran out
Before the dough began to fry
She took the fishgut out
And broast it empty till it dry
Then making smaller cakes
She potted them crispy again
On medium flame, flakes
Of brown, the royal taste remain.
When the pants were shabby
This grown boy saw her cut the leg
And with competency
Placed a seamless patch, I couldn't beg
Nothing newer for pride.
I wore my short pants out of tall
With a warm smile inside
For the most industrious of all
She cured wounds with the sod
Mixed in with a little spittle,
Made soap from ackee pod,
And her meat with spanish needle.
She shined the floor with fat
From melted candle, boiled water
With glass and sun; her chat
Was in prayer, her drink laughter.
Nothing was wasted there
Were mother kept us in her flock
Her folks ways did she share
Through proverbs; her faith tough as rock.
They say turn hand, make it
Turn hand and make fashion, my dear
The unconquered spirit
Of my mother, forbids the world a tear.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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