I can still see my mother squatting down by the fireplace ,
Putting some sticks over scrunched up newspaper .

She struck a match and lit the paper as smoke arose .
From the kindle a welcome warmth for us to share .

She would ask me to bring in some coal .
Then I’d go into the back yard where it was twelve below .

I remember her at the stove stirring the porridge to the boil ,
Outside winter birds left tracks in the snow .

Noticing the water pipes frozen I’d ask .
Am I going to school today ?”.
My Mother would give me a smile .

Flames leapt from the coals .
The porridge was hot in the bowls .
”Yes son , she would say .
“Winter is here for a while .”


By Paul McCann