Wet hands

When I was a child,

My mother's hands were

always wet

- a thing I didn't get.

But now there's no regret,

Perhaps they're even yet,

Though I wouldn't want to bet,

Still getting rather wet.

I'm forever in her debt.

Kanpur August 31 1979

I know big boys don't cry
But I'm ill and I'm down.
My spirit burns low,
And my heartfelt cry -
Not medicine, father,
Not comfort, not home,
Simply "Mam".
Where's my mother?
O to be in her arms,
O to be cradled, caressed,
To be cared for by no other hand,
Take me home to my mother land!

(As a young man I travelled to India and got sick, as you do. I wrote this then.)