A poetic afternoon with St Clare’s Primary School

Once a month on a Wednesday afternoon, our junior friends from St Clares Primary School come by Arcare North Shore for a visit.

They spend time chatting with the clients in the gardens, reading poems, playing games and even singing and playing music for us.

For that hour, we immerse ourselves with laughter and fun as we show the kids a thing or two about tic tac toe.

But more than often, they end up showing us how things are done.

Today, the kids had something different in mind for us.

They had collectively worked together on writing a poem to give to each of us.

The poems were beautifully poetic and carefully handwritten by the children.

The clients and team members were very touched by the children’s poems and impressed with their storytelling!

Somebody’s Mother

The woman was old and ragged and grey and bent with the chill of a winter’s day; The streets were White with a recent snow and the women’s feet with age were slow.

At the crowded crossing she waited long, jostled aside by the careless throng of human beings who passed her by, unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with the laughter and shout, glad in the freedom of “School let out”

Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep, hailing the snow piled white and deep

Past the woman so old and grey, hastened the children on their way.

None offered a helping hand to her, so weak and timid, afraid to stir. Lest the carriage wheels or the horse’s feet should trample her down in the slippery street.

At last came out of the merry troop, the gayest boy of all the group: he paused beside her and whispered low, “I’ll help you across if you wish to go”.

Her aged hand on his strong young arm, she space and so without hurt of harm, he guided the trembling feet along, proud that his own were young and strong; then back again to his friends he went, his young heart happy and well content. “She’s somebodies mother boys you know, for all she’s aged and poor and slow. And someone, sometime may lend a hand to help my mother-you understand? If ever she’s old and poor and grey, and her own dear boy so far away.

Somebody’s mother bowed low her head in her home that night….