TOMORROW is Mothering Sunday. Commercial exploitation should not obscure its benign origins. Here is an affectionate tribute to his mother by the Orcadian poet George Mackay Brown (1921-1996). The image of her tasks,“like bluebells in a jar on the window-sill,” is particularly memorable.

THE MOTHER

On Monday she stood at the wooden wash-tub,

Suds to the elbow,

A slave among the storm-gray shirts and sheets.

Tuesday, she pegged the washing high –

The garden a galleon in the gale!

Then lamplight, the iron, the crisp sun-smelling folds.

The rooms thrummed with Gaelic rhythms

A low monotone, on a Wednesday

(And every day), ancient Celtic work-spells.

She was never free like the lipsticked shop-girls

On Thursday afternoon; all her tasks

Were like bluebells in a jar on the window-sill.

On Friday she rose above textures of oat and barley

Into the paradise of cakes.

I licked cream from the wooden spoon.

Saturday night, I followed her basket and purse.

The grocer, silver-spectacled, was king

Of the apples, cheeses, syrup, sweetie-jars, cloves.

We sat, seven in the high pew on Sunday.

After the psalms, her paper poke

Make sweet thunders through the sermon.