Tribute to Women. Sarah, Louisa, Ferrin… by Adreyo Sen. Three amazing poems to read this Saturday. Enjoy your day, Yareah friends.
I wondered why you lived
in broken homes.
And then I realized you’re the grass
the ground beneath our feet.
You make the approach of sorrow slow.
Even in the saddest stones,
there was the gentle silence
of your quiet hope –
when Pain went away,
you were the laughter in the leaves,
the joy gleaming in the rain-drenched slopes.
Your face is stern.
You do not respond
to our tentative touch.
Your approach causes
a sudden hush.
Your anger is silent.
We live in fear.
And yet it’s your sleeve that’s worn
with our helpless tears.
Our children never learn to fear you.
Your mock rage makes them jump in joy.
Yours are the hands that clasp them to Heaven.
In their hands, you are a toy.
And when you die, it will be said,
this is the chair in which Louisa finally slept,
she who never smiled or laughed or sang,
she for whom so many angels wept.
We love you, Louisa. Fare thee well.
A warrior of the hockey field,
brave and strong and bright,
the smallest child could fell you,
its tears could make you cry.
You could never hold a baby,
its terror would make you scream,
you hovered at the cradle’s edge,
hoping to learn its dreams.
From hockey balls you went to bullets,
you began to lose your shine,
never knowing in all of England,
men would die for a heart this fine.
You didn’t cry when they told you
there was no baby you could call your own.
You set your face to the wall.
Some thought you were made of stone.
Not us. We knew though you never did,
who your children were.
The bewildered of the bloodied slopes.
Kittens caught in Death’s shrapneled fur.
You carried us all to safety.
You rocked us when we cried.
It was to your Yorkshire lilt
that some of England’s bravest died.
And now you are in your cradle.
The stars dance above your wearied face.
This ground is hallowed in your blood.
Tomorrow it won’t carry your trace.
Many you saved will forget you ever lived.
Others will disdain your quiet grace,
but in homes and hearts in all of England,
there are many Ferrins being born today.
Some will, I trust, be our children.
Some will, I trust, have your face.
We love you, Mamma Ferrin.
Now you must rest.