Hushed, stuttering, sotto voce conversation

Of women of a certain age squatting in a cafe

Like tigers in a rage. Red in tooth and claw, 

They defend their young with barbed remarks that

Carry such sage implications

That the ripples of misunderstanding extend far and wide.

Of their dark past little is known, except mothers

Perform many daily tasks whilst with joy and grief

Welcome the clones

Babies arrive helpless and empty, they stare at whatever's there

And say nothing for months and months and months

Echoing their mothers' speech

Gurgling with delight

At every passing sound and sight.

This forms their attachment to the world of form and speech.

Which, for a future poet, is a very temporary thing.