It’s a funny old thing, to be a mother
To put your heart in the hands of another
Without condition. Beyond and above
The surest form of human love,
Except, perhaps, for the love received
From the tiny child that was conceived.

Maybe it’s their love, at the start,
That truly binds us, heart to heart.
Their helpless gaze of dumb devotion
Creates, in us, a twin emotion.

Whatever the cause, when once we’re bound,
No dissolution can be found.

My heart will never be my own.

A part of mine, ’til you’ve out grown
A need of me, and on beyond
Belongs to you.

And you are fond
Of me, I know.
Yet,
As you grow,
You must be free.

No part of you belongs to me.

It’s a funny old thing, to watch you grow
And know a part of my heart must go.
It goes where you go,
Will,
Forever.
But serves as neither tie
Nor tether.
You are free, no binding rope
Can bring you back to me,
Just hope.

I’m a funny old thing, with a ruptured heart
That’s strangely fuller than at the start.