M For Mother

It was a long, long time ago,

Since I was at my mother's knee,-

Trying in vain on my tipped toe

To stand as tall as she could sit.

'Your cousin,' said my mother to me,

'Was the loveliest girl in Pontypool,

or through the Rhondda Valley; still

The girls would look at her sweet face,

As though there were no boys; for she

Had heaps of hair which, when she combed down,

Could be a coat, or half a gown.

Until one day when full of joy,

To hear my baby coo so well,

She tossed that hair, and its full weight

Breaking her slender neck-she fell.

Your cousin died-to end our story-

Killed by a thing that was her glory.'