Hanging

The little kid - he’s barely eleven months - plods after his mother, hanging onto her left leg, and bawling. She has her hair swept back, hidden by the folds of the scarf she has around her head, is bedecked in baggy pants and has that forlorn, tired look only the hassle of splitting her attention between steaming pots of rice, partly boiled chicken and her 11 month old bundle of energy can cause. ...

Do misty eyes mean Pain festering deep Lean souls starved - Hope blithely crushed And purloined? Do memories mean Wounds left raw, rubbed sore, Chafed red - careless promises Blown away like ripples on a lake by a belligerent hurricane? Do clasped hands hide scars And wry smiles hide gloom