11/03/2026
Mother’s Day Lament
The cards bloom bright in shopfront glass,
pink paper promises tied with ribboned cheer,
while somewhere a mother counts the years
by the silence in a child’s room.
There is a crib that never learned the weight of sleep,
a photograph kissed thin with time,
tiny socks folded in a drawer
that still remembers small feet.
Today the world says celebrate,
but grief walks quietly through kitchens,
sits beside the morning tea,
and answers when no one else does.
There are mothers who carry children in memory
the way the sea carries lost ships—
not visible, but always there,
heavy with stories that never reached shore.
And there are women who stand at windows
watching spring arrive in other gardens,
hands empty but hearts full of names
they whisper only to the night.
They hold hope like fragile glass
doctor’s rooms, quiet prayers,
the ache of another year turning
without a voice calling them Mum.
Yet there are also the ordinary miracles:
sticky fingers, crayon cards,
sleepy heads against a shoulder
on a slow Sunday morning.
Motherhood, in all its shapes,
is not only laughter and warm bread.
It is longing, and courage,
and love that survives absence.
So today the flowers belong to all of them—
to the arms that hold,
to the arms that once held,
and to the arms still waiting.
For every heart that has made room
for a child—
in life, in loss,
or only in dreams.
Bryony Hartley 2026