The Prayer Book

19 Nov

At the bottom of a dusty attic box,

I found my mother’s prayer book,

Yellowed now and worn. Complete with

Heavy duty Latin Masses,

Proper of the Season,

Mum would read the book in bed

Me snuggled up beside her

Watching as she turned the pages,

Cleaner’s fingers rough and reddened.

Deep in her devotion; strong

Within her stricken body, widowed

Motherhood, she read.

And now I hold the book

My mother’s hands no longer can.

Complete with all the prayers

I’ll ever need.

I settle down to read

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