Walking round the lake, I remember ...

Bad mother, they said,

blame heaped by all,

on her alone

for every little thing

amiss

in the cruel, hard years.

A child bride -

untried, unknowing,

aching for some freedom.

So easy to attack,

to scapegoat, pillory, control.

Loud voices from the patriarchy,

with her the butt of brutal jokes.

Keep em barefoot and pregnant -

a mantra for young hausfraus,

mere cooks and bottle washers

in times of ignorance,

of callous disempowerment.

But with spirit rising, she broke loose.

She ran, escaped, was free, but forgot

judgements visited on fatal Eve.

And that curse took hold -

her children nursing dislocation,

remembering lost comforts,

mourning favours

from a sporting father’s pride

and privilege.

See her wounds? Scars from

a thousand strikes, sly and subtle,

fusillades of snide remarks from

cold-faced offspring

who won’t forgive,

with blame resurgent,

coiled anew,

words aimed to hurt.

Guerrilla warfare -

scores settled by undercover blows.

Priorities in the endless war ?

A camouflage in coats of colours,

for few will see past smiling lures

to hidden hits,

to condemnation -

her always coming last

on their chilly, new ‘To Do’ lists.

© bba 07/06/2011