The chesty coughs of infant's in the morn,
and the frost that melted,
on the inside of the bedroom windows.
Our beds blanketed,
with old coats,
that had seen better days of town's war and street fair.

Then Father would leave throught the tumb latched door,
to farm the land that kept our bellies fed.
Whilst Mother would fill the turf basket,
to rekindle the glow in the embers of the ash.

The water barrell, with it's thick lid of ice,
was broken to make the pot of tea.
Then Mother would make the stir-about,
For Johnny and me.

Father with his lone horse and plough,
would be warm by now.
And on his plate,
sat bacon, eggs and toast.
Cooked on the range that Mother slaved to.

When I became a man,
I ate from his plate.
My bacon, my eggs, my toast.

And looking back to then,
I lived the struggle.
Of rural life.
With my dirty cold bare feet of 1916.


Liza Mc Beth.

16/1/14.