The Blue Dress Poem by Gordon R Menzies

Old mother, you won't remember
but you will tell me you do
and in my pride I will admit, it
will be an easy thing, believing;
the rest, I do not believe, so
eighty years have not passed,
your hair is not snow white
and brittle, your hand is not
lacking in strength nor the
skin of your cheek weathered
with life's long cares, my love
refuses the eye's proclamations
and bends knee instead, to
blue wax crayon on white
and how I saw you then, purely,
and honestly, a child's vision
of permanency and motherly
beauty, the first of worshipped
women, crowning all that
followed, with sun bright
yellow hair, I could not
with my infant hands, press
hard enough to capture then
the lustre as I saw it, golden,
see it still, so surely fixed
I broke the crayon in trying
One cannot render that
measure of divinity graphically
One cannot etch it in runes
The best has always fallen
short of capturing the magnitude
of mother in a child's eye
That blue dress drawing
was the closest I'd ever come
to catching the immortal iron
of kisses on a forehead
that are not subject to time