by Peter Gallaher
Nora sits in her chair in the corner
Greets you in a worn husky whisper
And smiles with difficulty. Her lips are blue
But no one tells her that. It doesn’t matter
To the folk who know her best and love her.
Nor would it matter much to her to know.
She has her corner, now, and is content
To watch the clouds advancing from the hills
And see the setting sun ignite the sky.
Nora used to hand milk cows, forty two,
Twice each day, with her three boys, see them off
To school, welcome them home to work above
With her in the fields behind the house
With the cold water tap in the kitchen.
The fireplace burned turf she cut herself.
Her boys ate the fowl she butchered for them.
Her thick hands held theirs at Holy Mass.
Some morning soon she will not awake.
The dogs will come, tails tucked, to greet her
And beg for breakfast at the door, but she
Will not be there to call them bold while they
Run up into the fields and harrow home the
Wandering ducks and geese, calves and heifers,
Too small or young to know they are mere pets.
And the men will gather, men now, no boys
In the home she made for them with hard hands
And her big heart and remember Mother.
Here, three thousand miles away, I will weep
And for her solitary vigil keep .