Your Birthday

 24th March

558

Another Day.

Without you.

Today is your birthday.

 You would have been seventy seven.

You promised we'd get old together, potter around,

help each other, love each other.

But, you left...

You went too early. 

I was not ready. Not ready.

I'm still,

Not ready.

No...

Yes, it might be, by some measure of time, quite long, 

this eighteen months and twelve days.

And, yes, it is...

However, I want you to know, that,

It's also like you've just left.

I still want to wake from sleep, and

feel you there, beside me .

I still want you to agree, or, not agree,

with all my musings,

to discuss, to make me see everything from,

a different, your, point of view.

I still want us to remember together,

all the many blessings that made up,

Our Life...

I loved that...

Sometimes, do you remember, we would be 

crying with joy as we pondered on

 God's goodness to us.

No, it's not easy, living without you 

beside me.

All those  "little" things didn't add up to,

very much in our day to day life,

But, it's those very ordinary things,

even the smallest irritations ,

that I miss the most, and,

would love to have back.

Am i being morbid? Maybe.

Should I just get on living without you?

Yes, surely.

And, I am, I am. I've got lots going on.

Yet, you aren't there, to share... 

Sometimes, that feels so heavy.

So very heavy...

Will I feel the same when your next

birthday comes around,

Another year from now? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soda Bread 2

                                Soda Bread 

An early summer light casts long, rectangular patterns

Into the small kitchen.

6  a. m.  Angelus Bells ring out from the cathedral.

Softly, she mutters the prayer, to herself, as,

she places two sods of turf onto burning briquettes,

in the range.

My grandmother remembers, fondly, how grandad and 

John Jo cut the turf, brought it home in the spring,

Turf, that will warm them through bitter winter months.

She sighs, sits the mixing bowl on the wooden,

farmhouse table, adds flour, buttermilk, soda, salt.

No weighing, no hesitating - instinctive, rythmic

Just as my grandmother draws those she loves,

close to her heart,

 with tender touch, she forms the soft, supple dough.

She throws it down, onto the floury table,

gently, she kneads - hands worn, knuckles gnarled.

I imagine her life - many hours, many days, many years,

fair weather, or foul.

 Work, from dawn to dusk . on the family farm.

Today, the cosy cottage is more manageable.

 

My grandmother takes a knife, and cuts, ceremoniously,

into the round dough. 

If you're near, you'll hear , as she whispers,

"The cross of blessing"

Later, as the sun goes down, the soda bread will be cool,

she will slice it, spread it with butter, a lot of butter,

pile it high on plates.

Family and friends will gather, all united together in this,

timeless tradition:

Soda bread, strong tea, shared stories, stories stored

 in the  very walls of the cottage,

 talk, of what has been, what is, what will be.

There will be laughter , there will be crying,

there will be remembering.

My grandmother , with a tear, in her eye,

will look around, and smile.

All hearts will be full .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

             16 th March 2026

                               16 th March 2026

                   A June Morning in The Cottage                                            Soda  Bread                 

An early summer light throws long , rectangular patterns                   into the small kitchen.

6 am - Angelus bells ring out from the cathedral .

Softly , she  mutters the prayer, to herself, as she places                        two sods of turf onto the glowing briquettes in the range.

My grandmother remembers, with a smile how grandad                     and John Jo, cut the turf , brought it home from the bog                          in the spring, turf, that will last the family through                           bitter winter months.                      

 She sighs, sits the mixing bowl on the wooden farmhouse               table, adds flour, salt, buttermilk, soda,                                                   no weighing , no hesitating - rhythmic -  instinctive.                                

Just as my grandmother  draws those she loves                                        close to  her heart, with tender touch she forms the                             soft, supple  dough.                                                                                     She throws it down onto the floury  table,                                          Gently, she kneads, -  hands, worn, knuckles, gnarled.                               I imagine her life - many hours, many days , many years,                         fair weather or fowl - work,  from dawn to dusk                                      on the family farm.                                                                                Today, the cosy cottage is more manageable.                                                My grandmother takes a knife, and,  cuts ceremoniously,                      into the round dough.                                                                                      If you're  near you'll hear her whisper,  "the  cross of blessing."                                                                                                                                          Later, as the sun goes down, the soda bread will be cool,                      she will slice it, spread it with butter, lots of butter,                              pile it high on plates,   family and friends will gather -                        all,  united together in this timeless tradition -  Soda bread,                   pots  of strong tea, shared stories- stories stored                                        in the very walls of the cottage,  talk of what has been, what is,                what will be There will be laughter,there will be crying,                    there will be remembering.

My grandmother will smile, with a tear in her eye.

               All hearts will be full. 

 

 

                                   

 

 

 

  

 

                                   

 

 

 

 

Soda Bread

            16 th March 2026

                   A June Morning in The Cottage                                            Soda  Bread                 

An early summer light throws long , rectangular patterns                   into the small kitchen.

6 am - Angelus bells ring out from the cathedral .

Softly , she  mutters the prayer, to herself, as she places                        two sods of turf onto the glowing briquettes in the range.

My grandmother remembers, with a smile how grandad                     and John Jo, cut the turf , brought it home from the bog                          in the spring, turf, that will last the family through                           bitter winter months.                      

 She sighs, sits the mixing bowl on the wooden farmhouse               table, adds flour, salt, buttermilk, soda,                                                   no weighing , no hesitating - rhythmic -  instinctive.                                

Just as my grandmother  draws those she loves                                        close to  her heart, with tender touch she forms the                             soft, supple  dough.                                                                                     She throws it down onto the floury  table,                                          Gently, she kneads, -  hands, worn, knuckles, gnarled.                               I imagine her life - many hours, many days , many years,                         fair weather or fowl - work,  from dawn to dusk                                      on the family farm.                                                                                Today, the cosy cottage is more manageable.                                                My grandmother takes a knife, and,  cuts ceremoniously,                      into the round dough.                                                                                      If you're  near you'll hear her whisper,  "the  cross of blessing."                                                                                                                                          Later, as the sun goes down, the soda bread will be cool,                      she will slice it, spread it with butter, lots of butter,                              pile it high on plates,   family and friends will gather -                        all,  united together in this timeless tradition -  Soda bread,                   pots  of strong tea, shared stories- stories stored                                        in the very walls of the cottage,  talk of what has been, what is,                what will be There will be laughter,there will be crying,                    there will be remembering.

My grandmother will smile, with a tear in her eye.

               All hearts will be full.