Poem of the week: My Mother by Claude McKay

<p>Two sonnets absorb with calm clarity a boy’s anguish at his mother’s loss</p><p><strong>My Mother</strong></p><p>Reg wished me to go with him to the field,<br>
I paused because I did not want to go;<br>
But in her quiet way she made me yield<br>
Reluctantly, for she was breathing low.<br>
Her hand she slowly lifted from her lap<br>
And, smiling sadly in the old sweet way,<br>
She pointed to the nail where hung my cap.<br>
Her eyes said: I shall last another day.<br>
But scarcely had we reached the distant place, <br>
When o’er the hills we heard a faint bell ringing;<br>
A boy came running up with frightened face;<br>
We knew the fatal news that he was bringing.<br>
I heard him listlessly, without a moan,<br>
Although the only one I loved was gone.</p> <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/oct/13/poem-of-the-week-my-mother-by-claude-mckay">Continue reading...</a>