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.
