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:
Primary Colors
by Stephanie Goldstein