Drumnakelly, Northern Ireland
For Gretta
the last of the light struggles
through the hedges
limps across the muddy fields
rests on the window sill
finds new fire in the begonias
fills the scullery with sudden gold
and silhouettes her love
in a gesture
she takes down the polish kit
kept in a cookie tin
presses it against her blue pinafore apron
pries open the lid
with vigorous strokes
she blackens the work boots
of her men
husband
sons
shines their labouring movements
along the scaffold
the rhythmic scrape of their trowels
brick bats kicked
from the planks
the quick curses
their stories laid course by course
as plumb and true as any wall
(with some wavering
home from the pub)
she sets the then
by the hearth
ready for morning
the only men on the line
with polished boots
no mortar hardened eyelets
she wipes her hands
on her apron
snaps the lid on the tin
the sun burnished sky
quietly darkens
Rae Crossman
Published in The Grand Table Anthology
Rae Crossman