© Zoe Younger 2008

What do you see when you sit down beside the woman who’s there next to you?
Do you see the clothing that’s tired and old, the hair that is grey white or blue?
Look deeper look down to the inside, past the layers she puts on each day.
Look deep in her eyes ‘til you see to her soul on the inside where she hides away.

Stripped down to the bare essentials, to the person who lives in her heart.
She is fragile.She’s soft and she’s gentle, a loverof music and art.
She’s a shy little girl from the country, plain and simple yet unashamed.
She loves flowers and birds and bees, her animals free and untamed.

She’s a poet, a greenie, a mother. -she’s never been scared of hard work.
She’ll get down and dirty like you do – the toughest of tasks she’ll not shirk.
She’s generous when anyone needs her, with her wisdom her time or her ear.
She’ll listen to you when you need to talk,She’ll tell you what you need to hear.

She’s a lover of truth and of goodness, a champion for those down and out.
She’s compassionate, kind, empathetic -a hero of mine there’s no doubt
Neath the costume she wears on the outside, the faces she’d rather show you
She’s vulnerable unprotected, so sometimes she’s sad and she’s blue.

She’s defenceless ‘gainst cunning and guile, innocent, naive as a child.
Too trusting and meek to be left alone, in the city so evil and wild.
She sees all the violence and fighting. It makes both her heart and mind whirl
She longs for the peace in the quiet, she knew back when she was a girl.

For the long sunny days in the country, the creek where the winds used to blow
through her curls as she sat, or she swung, on a vine, time passing by, going so slow.
The clean fresh dry air of the outback,bearing waffle and gum blossom smells.
When safety was walking in bushland, kicking dust up -the tails she tells.

The pranks they pulled, the wood they chopped, the fire they set for the night
The tales tall and true, the words they knew, the songs and poems learned right.
Of laughter that rang in the nighttime, the giggles she heard in return.
For the simpler days of her childhood, for her family her heart it does burn.

She’s naked under her clothes, you know, bareas the day she was born.
But her skin’s not so soft or clear now, in fact it is wrinkled and worn.
Never forget in the worry and haste, of this life we now leave -she is true.
The unvarnished truth I dare you admit -she’s my mother, she’s me -is she you?