Hot Buttered Scones (a poem)

My grandmother 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, knowing where it all was,
and hand us a hard-earned treat that had
been officially banned before dinnertime.

Her kettle is still in pride of place atop the counter,
though the kitchen is seldom frequented since the day of her wake.
It was busy then, all of us 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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s