It’s always a good idea to have a poem or two up one’s sleeve, I find.
I am working on another one. This one harps back to the Nineteenth Century. A poor (working-class) young unmarried mother - desperate, half-starved and unable to cope - leaves her child on the steps of the local Poor House. (I’m filling up already.) The poem is mainly told from the child’s perspective; although I do pop up now and then as a judgemental omniscient narrator.
It’s entiltled, ‘The Poorhouse Prayer’ and the first line goes something this…
‘Oh! Don’t leave me on the doorstep, Ma!
It’s cold, I’m tired and me legs are sore.’
To cut a long story short: