Speak of her with a lowered tone
A face that honours, respects and restores
Your gratitude can be seen in the glimmer in the tear
That sits on your lid, never daring to fall.
Your quiver remembers her kindness and relays the stories she used to tell you at your bedside.
Stories of past, of necessities and the way things were.
At the foot of her bed, you sat cross legged for hours, sinking into the warmth of each other’s company; reading, sewing, nurturing, feeding.
You feel the softness of her shawl, the modesty in each stitch.
The humble life of Irish poetry, song and stews on a Sunday.
She allowed your nature to embark on a beginning so fruitful, giving courage and strength with each act thereafter.
Protected in a tender part of your memory, she sits waiting for you to return. Safeguarded in your thoughts, she becomes the beacon that you use to guide you through trying hours.
Your gratitude can be seen in the transformation in your expression, the beautiful surrender that succumbs in her honour.
This poem is about the relationship my mother had with her grandmother, the woman who raised her and was so quickly taken from her at the tender age of 10.