Searching the Shamrocks

Tulips line the walkway like maidens waiting to greet me
as I run to see the old woman whose back is arched and aching
I see her in the garden pulling Spring onions
her sun bonnet tied beneath a wrinkled chin
wiping sweat from her brow and lifting a too-big
hand to shield her eyes from the morning sun
I wait for her in a corner of the yard that belongs to Ireland
searching the shamrocks thinking of Great-Grand Pappy
wondering with my six-year old mind why I can never
seem to find that four-leaf clover in their midst
Yet I’m happy to look for hours on end for something
my big brother had whispered in my ear would bring
better luck than what hangs high above the workshop door
that I can see just down the path from where I sit
I do believe I remember him
turning a wheel and spitting on metal that sparked
against a familiar sound as the smell of tobacco
rose up to meet my nostrils in the midday heat
I run up the steps into the sun porch where
green tomatoes are lined up along the window sills to ripen
and turn the corner to see my Grandmother standing at
the stove frying up fatback and potatoes
The table is set with jars of jam and biscuits
Black coffee is brewing in the pot and just maybe
she’ll pour me a cup with extra cream so I won’t
stunt my growth and I’ll be a real good girl someday
©Kay Salady

About Kay Salady

I write about the greatest force on earth that, I believe, lives on forever and surpasses all else. "All your poems read like I am watching an artist use words instead of colours full of feeling." ~Anon.

Posted on November 8, 2015, in poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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