Etta Poem by jim hogg

Like many of that era gone,
she didn't have a lot of say,
and mainly she was swept along:
to Innermessan's moonlit bay

to gather whelks on frosty nights,
to tattie picking at Kirr'nrae,
in conversations ranging wide,
through politics to setting snares,

from shooting tins nailed to a tree,
from cooking meals and washing clothes,
to struggling just to make ends meet,
to darning socks and scrubbing floors,

to raising half a dozen kids.
She worked a miracle for years.
I stand in awe of all she did,
and very rarely saw the tears

she must have had the urge to shed,
a thousand times or maybe more,
and all that gratitude we felt,
when we'd grown old enough to know,

was felt too late, and left unshown.
The trivia of life betrays.
Of course we thanked her now and then,
but didn't really turn and face

in depth, the hardships she endured.
But never did she say a word
about her kids' ingratitude
- regret's not punishment enough.

I'm grateful most of all for friends
who made her struggle bearable;
when they had time alone to spend,
freed from the stress her life entailed,

when she could laugh and shed the load,
that never-ending duty brings.
If there had been some way to know
would she have swerved the vows and rings?

Her end, at best, was merciless,
like penance for her suffering;
week after week of living hell,
relieved by killing sedatives.

A life so harsh just thrown aside.
What kind of deity would ask
beloved subjects to abide,
such misery before they pass?

The very notion is absurd,
and yet that madness stalks the earth,
as if some greatness is at work,
to sift and steer to "worthiness",

to trade redemption for our sin,
to loose the righteous on the world;
and billions have been taken in
by myths that flood their lives like blood.

And so it's over and she's gone.
She had so little of her own,
except for chores and some sad songs
until she found herself alone.

Unable to begin again
she lived her life through all of us,
and though we'd visit now and then,
we simply didn't give enough.

And now she's scattered far and wide,
a meagre tribute meant to link
the lonely furrow of her life,
to hard earned meaning that persists,

though only just, while some can catch
a glimpse of who their mother was.
But even that fades all too fast:
the ground she tilled will soon be lost.