The mother left for the fields,

her baby sound and sleep.

In her world of dreams

would she curl for an hour or two.

The mother left for the fields,

leaving her heart behind.

She has work to do,

and be back ‘fore its late.

The mother scurried along,

the winding narrow lanes,

which leads to the fields,

where she toils till sun leaves.

Her eyes were set afar,

to the mountains and beyond,

but all she could see,

was her little baby’s face.

The whistling thrush

by the dandelion bush,

and the dancing robin

in the muddy hoggin,

all were seen by

her weary eyes, but

not went up to

her heart at home.

The worn-out legs

had miles to walk.

The callus hands

had a sickle and a bag.

The path was lovely,

green and all.

But all her mind sought

was her baby’s smile.