She called our county drain The Burn
when I was wee and she was worn.
At the field's edge she built a cairn:
"Rags on a scarecrow ward the corn."
While darning socks with worsted yearne
or milching coos in a hip-roofed barn
she sang Burns to a jug-earned bairn.
A ferlie whirled in her butter churn.
She said the sundial stood so long
because it only counted hours
when the sun was shining.
Its daily lesson kept her strong,
showing her how to husband powers
despite their slow declining.
When the years totaled ninety-one
she was thirty-nine by the sun.
Very Far North, The Waywiser Press,
2002. Reprinted by
permission of the author.
Amreta's Graphics Corner