A Tale of a Working Mother


Eve wakes every morning
turns her head to the sun
looks past the Body that lies
beside her

Eve rises to another day with that ache
in her body, in her soul
reaching for her Child
who screams

She dresses her children (and herself)
brushes their hair (and her own)
digests glutinous oat porridge
leaves the home
good-bye

a short distance
small space of time
ENCLOSED

Eve arrives ready to work
sifting through soil and swede
on the conveyor today, again
sometimes she throws the dirt
sometimes she keeps the dirt

Eve watches the earth travel
beneath her numb knarled hands
She is sorting, always sorting,
the Mud from the Material,
the Dirt from the Dream.


© Gaylene Barnes