You were a face in a photograph
on Grandma’s mantelpiece
steeped into my history
born again on sun-baked afternoons
when the swell of nostalgia
returned her to
china urns
chicken coops
farm toil
black soil turning the century

back to when
you held her hand
grinning like a prized sheep dog
she said yes
leaves scattered in spent surrender
big-bellied by Spring

spindly fingers would recount
the order the little ones came
the ones who lived

she made do with lard soap
and fire-cooked pot slow meals
stewed from nothing and anything
her favourite pig was Cuthbert
she hadn’t eaten pork that Christmas

harvest was the best of times
travelling gangs
excited children
linen wrapped field food
horse tails switching
you sang at the great suppers
under the gaze of the Kern Baby

she was ninety two
you were a time ago face in a photo
there was never talk of battering or bruises
not until yesterday’s lunch dried on the plate
and the muted sunlight of final harvest
faded with the Crying Mare