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‘To my mother’ by George Baker
Member rating: No Rating | Words: | Submitted: Fri Jun 03 2005
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Sonnet To My Mother Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far, Under the huge window where I often found her Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter, Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand, Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,- She is a procession no one can follow after But be like a little dog following a brass band. She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar, But lean on the mahogany table like a mountain Whom only faith can move, and so I send O all her faith and all my love to tell her That she will move from mourning into morning. George Barker A critical appreciation of 'to my mother' by George Baker This sonnet by George Baker is, as the title suggests, a tribute to his mother, evidently, at the time of the aerial bombardment...
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