Aunt Nora


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 .

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