Poem from UK practitioner

Weeping Mother begs eldest son,
Please, your brother cease to quarrel.
Mother how? I the eldest be,
is it not his part to cease?
Eldest yes, it is you I ask.
When taunted sore Mother’s saddened face
the anger breaks.
In deep morning’s hush, suddenly awake,
why yes, no quarrel has there been sometime, yet gone unnoticed,
what lesson does there be ?
Later, yes much later, it is known.

17th October 2001