Adjustable paper guide, blackberry picking,
Barry's Tea and red wine, neighbours carol singing.
October winds and matchstalk men, a yellow Renault five,
Mossie the old milkman, and a pocket full of rye.
Orange kitchen cupboards, cod liver oil,
potatoes for the next day, peelings for the soil.
The kettle's always boiling, jars crammed full,
tomato plants are spoiling, salt in handfuls.
A corner full of beehives, mint sauce and chops,
a black rabbit on the driveway, six crowing cocks.
Guitar frets and card decks, bunged airlocks,
rows of earthed strawberry beds, the oven drying damp socks.
Carbon copy paper sheets, headscarves in the rain,
line-space lever, sink full of ware again.
A little mouse with clogs on, script deadlines,
borage and parsley... sage, rosemary and thyme.
Frances filled forms,
spell-checked,
won awards,
typeset.
She pulled letters from scrawls,
print from shorthand;
all while a small child crawled
on to her lap.
Each submission
meant typing up twice;
no copiers or printers,
just mornings and nights.
I got my fingers stuck between those keys,
until the electric typewriter muffled their clacks.
And then a stream of clunky PCs
were replaced by laptops that went fast, fast, fast.
The technology improved in leaps
of too much change at too much speed.
Arnica and aconite just when you think
you can make both ends meet, margin release.
(On 30/08/2021 my mother, Frances O'Keeffe, passed away. She was 72 years old. She had been very sick for a very long time, really since 1998, but with long periods of wellness between then and 2010. And she hadn't been herself for years. I am one of six children, she is a huge loss to us all, and no less for her seven grandchildren, who she possibly loved more than us. They were lucky to meet her and she them. RIP Frances, 1948-2021).
