Northwords Now Issue 36

The FREE literary magazine of the North

Wheesht, mo ghràidh

by Arun Sood

In the morning Gaga lit a fire
after crumpling Sunday Post pages
into flammable orbs and placing
them beneath the kindling and peat

Her swollen hands clasped tight
the tinder that grated against the
Bluebell matchbox from which
I had read football trivia to my uncle

Fire catching, she ambled to the kitchen
to boil milk for breakfast after washing
dram glasses and brushing crumbs
from the bacon pieces and biscuits

The drinkers, wheesht mo ghràidh, lay asleep.