She twanged through my childhood with her Irish lilt,
her urban tales blessed with God care for us. Free
of religion her ritual was laughter and liquorice. She spoke
of Queen of the Road, how it carried all her children
in its deep hollow body, how its spokes and wheels rattled
under sibling scraps; it was as black as a mortal sin. She sang
as she paced the living room floor, fiddled and fussed over
her grandchild swaddled in a tartan shawl. Silenced by sleep
she sat in her chair, stared at the fire with grandmother care. Warm,
fresh soda bread wrapped up in a tea towel, a smell I still hug.
She’d give me her alchemy, sour milk and flour, for all at home
to quickly devour, her mashed tatties and scallions was champ for us.
Kevin Reid lives between Scotland and other lands. His poetry has appeared in various journals such as, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s House, Under The Radar, Seagate III, Scotia Extremis. A mini pamphlet Burdlife (Tapsalteerie)
was published in 2017. He is editor of Nutshells and Nuggets, a blogzine for short poems.