Friday, May 27, 2016


Mother cared naught for things
no precious china
no wedding rings
no photographs.
She liked ideas
politics and poetry
a small whiskey
with a good chat
tea with cream and
what she called, a decent cake.
Wild flowers stirred her
birds were companions
land treasured ... and longed for.
She loved her children
but not to excess
not under her feet
nor always in the house.
A person of deep feelings,
she disliked the sentimental;
frequent displays of affection
were foreign to her.
A pat or two on the head would do.
She expected independence
but understood failure.
"You can always come home," she liked to say.
She abhorred boasting, allowed no bragging
success was to be mentioned only in passing.
She spoke with a soft brogue
her generosity was boundless.
Shy of strangers
she warmed up quickly
leaving them overtaken with her charm.

My mother was Irish.
She sent her children out in the rain to play.

Bridget Harwell


Aileen said...

I love this poem, Aunt Bridget. I'm sitting back at the kitchen table with Grandma right now, drinking tea, and hearing her talk. I love that you bundled all of this together, into one poem.

Bridget said...

Thank you, Aileen. I can see you both.