This poem by a much under-rated Australian poet is profoundly simple, a rare achievement. It is impossible not to sympathise with the speaker on the one hand, and not to be disturbed by the implications of what she says on the other.
I have grown past hate and bitterness,
I see the world as one;
But though I can no longer hate,
My son is still my son.
All men at God’s round table sit,
and all men must be fed;
But this loaf in my hand,
This loaf is my son’s bread.