In gumboots and a swandri worn, She trudges home as dawn is born, A tired mum with three to tend, Where endless shifts seem never end. Messy bun, her crown of thorns, A symbol of the weary morns, With weary eyes, she meets the staff, Who catch her like an ambushed path. But in her heart a simple plea, For pink squishmallow, her child’s glee, No thief is she, just tired grace, A mother in this ceaseless race. She dreams of rest, when pressures cease, And night brings her a whispered peace, Yet in this moment, day's demands, She fights with love, but weary hands.