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Poem, Heirlooms
| Posted at 08:09 PM on March 12, 2009 |
A poem I am working on came when decorating the hallway for my daughters wedding that's comming up. she asked me about my mother's 'Willow patterned' plates that sit on the hall unit; saying they looked odd and out of place. A work in progress.
Heirlooms
If willow patterned plates could talk
the stories they would hold
given from mother to mother
words ingrained on the soul.
They would carry tears of an uprising
from the home at Vinegar Hill
Basket women? some called them
mopping their mens blood spill.
They too became fighting women
took allsorts to the men in the fields
hidden in wicker baskets
on the bars of their bicycle wheels.
They sits with friends in the hallway
the pattern now faded to grey
almost a century; come Easter
with a life time of tales to convey.
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