The time of year when families gather,
Sat round for Sunday Lunch,
When all we do is laugh and blather,
With wine and beer and punch.
A magic day with smiles all round,
The fire blazing hot,
The lounge is full of Christmas sounds
And crackers that go pop.
And now it’s time for mother’s gift,
A secret kept ‘til last,
The room now takes a quiet shift,
A present from the past.
A little book with quotes inside,
And spoon to shortly follow,
With recipes of love beside,
There’s quite a lot to swallow.
For these dear siblings have no clue,
That mother bear is ill,
Only to me can she be true,
To hush the pain with pills.
So these small gifts, though seem quite small,
Our Goodbyes all wrapped up,
She gives to us while standing tall,
So strong, she bottles up.
She acts so tough in numbered days,
Though strength is wearing thin,
Appetite meagre and eyes are glazed,
As she holds back her tears with gin.
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