Her grandmother is a witch
in a Shakespearian play,
there’s a cast iron pot over the fire-
filterless cigarette dangling from her mouth,
blowing smoke through her Irish nose,
thin long face, still higher cheekbones.
Her grandmother rolls holy beads
with her shaky blue-veined fingers,
as Jesus watches from his place
on the kitchen wall, heart exposed.
Arthritic hands poke at the turf
with a blackthorn stick, the half-read
paper vanishing, words crackling,
ashes to ashes at her feet.
Voices lost in stone walls echo
she’s the spit of her gran, they say
sure they’ll be no talkin’ to her –
she’s written a poem about