Tuesday, 5 April 2016



Nineteen forty-five was like that
Free-wheeling to the crossroads;
Fifteen miles later; her own birth place;
Travelling was the best part, the wind at her back,
A greeting ahead.  News from home....

Roaming the familiar lanes, sisters
Continuous chatter; away from the
Clatter of feeding hungry hens, pigs and
Cows. She could roam without children,
For a day: Pause for some rest.

A small slip of time away from the chores
That shaped her life. No sooner had the
Ceili begun, it was time for the door: among
Promises to write, feeling satisfied to have rested
Those tired limbs. She’d set off, her frame;

Feeling heavier, cycling up hills, the thrill
Of the annual visit finished; her spirit slightly
Diminished, yet younger. She’d relay through letters,
How when she got back to the crossroads....the
First thing she’d hear; to spoil her wonder

Were her pigs squealing with the hunger....

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