A WOMAN'S PLACE

Each day that dawned
she let in reality with
the milk and watched
neighbours in headscarves

slip through the lane;
waved to her children
over a half-net when
they turned at the gate.

Summer and winter saw
her return to half-warm
sheets and a candlewick
spread where she listened out

for the revving of engines,
maybe the hum of a mower.
The kitchen clock struck
regular on the hour.

Breakfast things sat
in the stillness waiting.

Anne-Marie Fyfe