My grandmother always had her best fare laid out
well before she heard our wheels approach
– barm brack, soda bread, hot buttered scones –
and she'd boil the kettle one last time
(before the doors opened and we all poured in,
clutching suitcases and crisps and chocolates and
blooping, bleeping devices she scarcely understood)
so the tea would be nice and hot.
I didn't fully appreciate, until she was gone
how that small kitchen was her haven, her peace –
utensils stored with care and everything in its place.
When we would search with increasing intensity
for the best biscuits, the sweetest chocolate,
the crackers with the most satisfying crunch,
she would watch us with a smile and know where it all was,
handing us a hard-earned treat that had
been officially banned before dinnertime.
Her kettle is still there now, though the kitchen is silent,
seldom frequented since the day of her wake.
It was busy then, filled with people laughing and smiling
as we recalled the golden moments of her life
and laid out her table as she would have liked it
– barm brack, soda bread, hot buttered scones.
A response to the prompt bread and butter.