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I can still see my mother squatting down by the fireplace ,
Putting some sticks over scrunched up newspaper .
She struck a match and lit the paper as smoke arose.
From the kindle a welcome warmth for us to share.
She would ask me to bring in some coal.
Then I’d go into the back yard where it was twelve below .
I remember her at the stove stirring the porridge to the boil ,
Outside winter birds left tracks in the snow.
Noticing the water pipes frozen I’d ask.
Am I going to school today ? ”.
My Mother would give me a smile.
Flames leapt from the coals .
The porridge was hot in the bowls.
”Yes son, she would say. “Winter is here for a while.”
By Paul McCann
Paul McCann
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