My Neighbor, Maggie

by Maureen Ford

With ashen wrinkled face and squinting eyes

Bridgie peered over the briery hedge twice,

Before retreating, in the gate, to her unkempt yard,

Where noisy ducks and geese and hens sparred

For the tossed stale bread and spud-skins,

Thinking all the while of the empty bins

That years before were full of fresh-thrashed oats,

To feed the sinewy horses with shiny coats

Of chestnut and the grey dappled pon.

But only fowl are left to ease her lonely

Solitary life, in the crumbling old house,

The open fire sends smoke curling south

As strong winds suck up the flames, burning

The fiery red and gamboge and bright blue

Colors of the smoldering sticks and wood through.

Clothed in black shawl and billowing skirt

She slowly shuffles over the weedy dirt,

While from the gable-end of the dwelling

Can be heard the sound of spout-water spilling

Into an over-flowing tub, round which moss

Clings to whitewashed rocks and discarded clay pots,

Maggie's toothless mouth and ashy wrinkles,

Hidden from herself by cracked spectacles'

Is familiar to the drowsy cat and mice

That scramble round the flour-bin like dice

On the game table. A black pot hangs

From the iron-gate, that swings over embers

Or roaring fire, to bake flat-bread with

Cinders carefully plucked from fire to lid.

Living alone, in crowded yard and kitchen

With frowning countenance Maggie keeps dishin '

Old stories of neighbors background, true

Or false but sometimes missing from her brew

Are even small crumbs of Christian charity,

While histories, gossip and secrets, with clarity,

Are repeated to whoever stops to greet

The old woman with a will to bleat.

SECOND PLACE: