Mother Says Get On With It Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Tell me, how many attempts does it take?
To spread these wings to find my buoyancy
Trembling at the thought of falling, I quake.
Mother says Get on with it, poignantly.

She tells me I need to go and when to leave.
Son follows your nose wherever it goes.
Take to the air; see what you can achieve—
Gather all your strength up before the snows.

I've cried so hard, I'm now newly baptised.
Robin-redbreast; here her heart agonised
I've brooded long enough now about what is best.
Mother says, Get on with it; leave my breast.

Go, go and join those other dispossessed
I've done well by you; now do well by me.
Head northwest, son, or even head southwest.
But by me, do your very, very best.