I'm up three years of cards at two and a half quid a go,
And thirty pounds worth of flowers weigh heavy in my heart.
Empty vases and card-less mantles, this is what I’ve gained,
Years of homemade presents collect dust and lose their glitter.
Memories of daffodils and breakfasts in bed
Line my tears with clouded pictures, pierce my guarded, stiff resolve.
Cuddles over songs, roast potatoes dipped in wine,
Chinking clinking forks on china, scrap their love from plate to plate.
Pressed up against a window, no glass; just a bar,
On looking on the very thing I crave so very much.
Desperate to say my thank you. Pleading for the chance,
Surrounded by complacence, ignorant to such a loss.
Your mother gave you everything:
Your life, your love, your law of all.
Tell her today what she means to you
And remember that tomorrow she could be gone.