By Florence Heyhoe
County Down, Northern Ireland
“Your father was a great man,” said Theadora, “He used to stay at our house, he fished up Gortin way with my husband, they would talk for hours; they were good friends.”
slippery eels
sizzling in the pan
caught netted
I know better. I have seen him cross the line at times teasing cats: tumbling into cruelty. He told me a story once of a Siamese that sprung at him from the top of a door, sinking in teeth and claws on landing. Serves him right. He beat the living daylights out of my brother, locked him in with the hens, used his fists and the strap to beat the good name into him.
cows in line
mooing a sad song
leather and meat
Folk spoke well of him, he was a pillar of respectability and helpfulness and an elder in the church. A diabetic, he kept his bible in the car amongst the sweetie papers and dispensed pills day and night. He put bad into me, secret sin in secret places, thrusting me to smithereens He photographed the children’s smiles in chapel and church.
peas in purple pods
round and green and sweet
hungry worms
First Published: Her other language 2020