2nd November 2020
My thoughts turn to my grandmother on this Feast of All Souls.
So, a little poem:
Warmth
What makes
me feel warm inside?
I think of
my grandmother.
It's the
days leading up to Christmas.
She sits in
front of the range - for warmth
She picks up
a turf sod lying in the basket,
To feed the
oven,
Her hands
hardened by farm work, by family life,
I help her,
pick up my own lump of turf
Turf that
Uncle Timmy dug from the bog,
the previous autumn
It Feels
hairy to the touch, rough against my fingers,
not like the
regular, smooth edges
of factory
brickets,
We take
turns, my nan and I, to place a sod in the fire
without
words we feed our story, make it rich.
Flames give
a glow to her - already pink cheeks.
When the
roar reminds us "enough for now",
She sits
back, smiles, and for while,
retells old
tales of family long ago,
linking the threads,
lost in the mist of shared Ancestors
I wipe my
eyes, reach for another sod,
And know who
I am.
The rituals that connect us, so beautiful.
ReplyDeleteYes, noticing them more as I get older, Mimi. Thank you for your comment.
DeleteSandra K Stein
ReplyDelete