Poem - Margery Ruth Betts

The Unborn

By Margery Ruth Betts

Oh, the little ghosts, the little ghosts, a-calling and a-crying!

The white sails know their haven and the place where they would be,

The white wings know the hidden nest, and homewards they are flying,

But, oh! the little soundless feet that come not home to me.

’Twas just a dream of mine, my boy, and you were never heeding,

You laughed, and said your mother was “the sweetest girl you knew,”

But I, your mother, dreamt a time when someone would be needing

The little silly songs and rhymes I used to sing for you.

I used to sit and think of it when dew was on the clover,

And plan how I would sing again the little lullaby,

And I’d be singing, very low, the words and music over,

And now they’re crying at my heart, and will be till I die.

I was a silly woman at my age to get a-dreaming.

I dreamt until I thought I heard the feet that never were,

And even now at moments when I see a sunbeam gleaming,

I stretch my hand to catch it for a child that is not there.

Oh, the little things, the silly things, a woman dreams of saying,

And the way that every woman knows of kissing scratched knees well!

They’d have liked to rest on granny’s knees when they were tired of playing,

They’d have liked to hear the fairy tales that granny knew too tell.

Once I heard you calling, boy, in walking and in sleeping,

But now I’ve seen you lying dead on far Gallipoli,

And now I know the worst of it, my eyes are tired of weeping,

And Mary Mother has my son in Heaven safe for me.

But, oh! the ghosts, the little ghosts, a-calling and a-crying,

The weary wings they know the ways that lead them to the nest,

The white-sailed ships they cleave the seas when homeward they are flying,

But, oh! the small unmothered feet that have no place to rest.