I descended the stairs in dread, Shading my eyes From the late August sun Coming through the window, Onto the landing. The rakes leaned against the garage wall Like prisoners on work detail. Mammy had plain porridge, Toast, jam and strong tea prepared For our last summer breakfast. No tomatoes. We'd work on the clumps of dirt, Breaking, raking, smoothing, Preparing the ground for next Spring. The root cellar we dug beneath The newly poured porch Was filled with the harvest Of the auld sod's outlook. On the sideboard, stacked in four neat piles, Rose our school supplies for Tuesday. He stood guard at the bottom of the yard. I drove the prongs through the clumps, Waiting for the school bell.