Worn

Worn, like the shores of a thousand reasons
Like the coat of a hundred seasons
Or the grass on the trodden footpath
Of countless errands
Past the bark of a busy tree
Home to small creatures
Eaten by relentless birds
And stripped by squirrels
While crouching in a rain drenched corner of monotony
By the fence supported with a growth of clinging ivy

To a house with tired windows
In skin exposed to weather
On shoes of thinning leather
And a thread-bare heal spudded sock
Steps wearily on a rug
Host to a moth and all its young
To clear the stains from a mug
With a tired saggy sponge and watch
As a tea-tear glides down and stains the motif
Best mum in the world