I never saw your dad -
hard, dark
at yon hot
Stirling foundry -
digging your pit
in sand and
pouring your dangerous metal,
hell’s-bells bent
over
your cradle..
I heard
of your dear old mum’s
closeness extolled in sounds
of your towered soul -
near, pure, like water
in a bowl
of glass.
That bell cast
at your birth
is still singing
in peals
of your girlish laugh
though I
envisage you
swinging freely -
free! free!
over all of your kin –
and hear your own top-notes
ringing, bright, braw Betty.
Jacqui Thewless
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/betty/
