Written in 1969, with my husband and brother in Vietnam.

Love is a weary mother, hushing a crying son.
Love is a weeping widow whose grief has just begun.

Love may be a soldier, fighting for his countrymen.

Love is a paediatrician, healing and saving the young.
Love is a star-struck virgin, with song as yet unsung.

Love is a moon-struck poet, with sweetheart still un-won.
Love is sometimes a bullet fired from a best mate’s gun.

Love is parents and siblings. Love is kith and kin.
Love is the friends one relies on, depends on through thick and thin.

Love is the one who quarrels with you, then makes it up again.

Love is the dove who tends its nest. Love is the sweet song sung
By a male magpie to court its mate and rear with her its young.

Love is an untouched bride going on honeymoon.

Love is the love of a mate, who pats one on the shoulder
And says not a word, but sympathises. Love is growing older
And loving the lines on the face of the one one loved when bolder.

Love’s a devoted dog, following after its master.
Love is emergency rescue teams, on call after every disaster.

Love is the congregation of an understanding pastor.
Love is a husband and father who never strays from home.

Love is a Casanova who’s vowed no more to roam.
Love is the sea to a sailor, the white spray and the foam.

Love is a skilful surgeon, suturing sinew and vein.
Love is a tender-hearted nurse tending those in pain.

Love is a social worker, making society sane.
I wish love was a politician, but I think I wish in vain.