She had nothing to speak of
no money, no profession, no property
She kept chickens and always wore wellingtons
Her hair an untamed bush under a crocheted hat
Her skin creased like the folds of an accordion
sun blasted into brown granite
her language a quaint country lilt
Her wrinkles form permanent smile
lines around eyes and mouth
beaming her well meaning at the world
while shooing the chickens from
under her feet in shit splashed boots
You'd mention some old rogue
from the council, corrupt and foul
and her response was ever
"What a lovely man!"
She had no badness to say about anyone
Only good things to appreciate and praise
I once fell in the deep ditch beside her road
She ran throwing her bucket aside
chickens running in all directions
screeching their distress
with her spade hands and peat tipped nails
she hauled me out
smiling at me, the world and her chickens
As a child, I remember thinking
I'd found an angel in the shuck
1: a ditch at the side of the road that contains a small stream normally laced with cow shit
