MAGGIE.
Still life,
arranged on the table
in a ring of hearth light.
A slip of a girl
masquerading
as a walnut;
kernel of string bag sagacity
like an encyclopaedia .
“So how old are you Gran?”
I said.
“As old as me tongue and
a bit older than me teeth.”
She said.
Have a song or a saying
while I wipes yer nose.
“Hold still ye little Divil.”
Warriors and poets
roam free on
the tip of a darting smile;
laughing words
underlined with wrinkles
hide a lover,
or two.
High button boots
tap
her inner rhythm
in lost lullabies,
as bare foot summers
and long grass
sing
descant to memories.
Her voice: full of song.
Her eyes: full of Him.
Reg Kear
© 1991. Aus.
