The Old Woman Poem by Ciaran Quirke

She would sit in her wicker chair,
A white apron draped across her knees,
Her hands rested there, with rosary beads
strung between her fingers.

Her graying hair was tied back from her face,
which bore an austere expression.
She stared in awe at an image - an image
of her God - hung above the mantel.

She would sit in her wicker chair,
And an aura of peace would come
about her, as with shut eyes,
she bowed her head in praise.