Seated by the fireplace,

steely hair tied up beneath her shawl.

 

Turf smoke hangs in the air

and dances with the scent

of apple tarts baking.

 

The click click clicking

of her knitting needle

click click clicking.

 

Tending fields of lush green grass

and blooming white snowdrops

and ripe orange barley.

 

Always watching over the children,

relying first on her own strength.

 

She tells us “In my younger days,

no man could tame me”.

Now the bank is coming for her house.

 

Am I too old now?

Too old and worn to fight them?

And why would I try?

 

Her thoughts darken, but she speaks in a voice

as clear as when she was a proud young woman,

“There’s no fireplace like your own fireplace”.