The Parish Church of St George the Martyr, Waterlooville


A Mother’s Prayer for her Handicapped Child

Perhaps one day I’ll see you smile.
Or toss your head, or clutch my hand.
Or give me hope that in your mind,
You hear me and you understand.

Your gentle smile, so sweet and still.
The vacant look that’s always there.
I search in vain for some sure sign,
But all you do is sit and stare.

They tell me there’s no hope of cure.
That I must come to terms with this -
A hopeless case, and best forgot,
All thoughts of miracles dismiss.

My baby, I will never cease
To pray that you may someday thrive,
Or I may learn to live in peace
With the torture of your empty life.

I do not know what locks your mind,
What holds your head, or stills your hand.
I only pray that soon somehow,
I may begin to understand.

Janet Johnson

Summer Edition 2014

St George’s Book of Poems

Continuing our series of extracts from past editions of St George’s Book of Poems…..

The Passing of Years

High in the sky, the crescent moon
Shines on from paling night.
In reddening east, sun’s golden orb
Renews the world with light.

Thus moon to sun gives place, and so
We too must be content
To let some other soul take on
Our task when we are spent.

And, growing old, as strength grows less
We must not let our pride
Prevent the work from being done

Another one our God may need
To do what we could not.
So we must trust Him when he calls
Us to some other Lot.

Stanley Victor Wilman

An Ode to Narrow Boating

I sit in our boat in the front - sorry; bows
And the world drifts lazily by.
I paint roses and castles on things
While I ponder on how, where and why.

He sits on our boat at the back - sorry; stern
Steering a course with the tiller.
He plans his maintenance jobs
Like what hole he can fill with some filler.

As we potter along on the water - sorry; river
We live life at a different pace
People run past on the towpath
There's no way we could win such a race.

At night by the towpath we park - sorry; moor
And we close all the curtains and sing
As we sit by the pot bellied stove
We wouldn't exchange with a king.

Jane Rice-Oxley