Bernadette’s lungs were hissing,
In between, she was wheezing,
During the best part of the night.
Francois saw her poor plight.
For a moment, he felt sorry,
But he had his own worry,
How to run the family?
Where to find the money?
The parish church bell,
Did its routine job well,
And gave its wake-up call
To the early risers all.
Mother Louise got up first,
And father Francois next.
She kindled the fire to get,
For the teapot, enough heat.
She was just thirty-five,
But was more like fifty-five,
So much worked up she was.
Poverty was its root cause.
O’er his drinking habit,
There was always a fight,
Between the two couple,
As she locked up the bottle
The night brandy he drank
Was still burning his stomach,
And he whispered to her
“I’m going out this hour.”
“Is it in the saw-mill? ”
She asked as usual.
“No, to the postmaster, ”
This was his answer.
She turned to his side
And cautiously said,
“Let us send Bernadette
Away from this spot.”
“Where to, ” he asked.
“To her aunt, ” she said,
“Bernarde will look after
And take care of her.”
“She’ll get proper food.
Her health too will be good,
In that healthy atmosphere
More than what she gets here.”
He felt a little bit hurt,
But he just kept quiet,
O’er his failures, he felt.
In search of a job, out he went.
Bernadette woke up to hear
Their talks close to her ear,
And their concern about her.
Her tears found no answer.
Rajaram Ramachandran
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a02-worry-about-bernadette/
