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 .
