The rain chased down gulleys
Unable to stay in the claggy verges.
By now the work men had left for home
The last echoes of their hammer bangs
Took flight across the Hofn hills.
It was a poor day.
Over at Belle View Ginny in her renovated barn
was sitting cross-legged
up by the timber ladder
with the circular First Nations rug over her feet
sifting through dust for past achievements
to make a case for celebration
as March 8th approached
A smiling Maya Angelou matronly sat
at the bottom of Ginny’s Victorian chest.
There were some rusted Women’s badges.
on top of old Spare Rib magazines.
What she found had to be relevant
for wives in houses and daughters
whose men were down at the fishing,
who still spoke of men’s work and
ordered only bath salts from the Avon catalogues.
None needed childcare, nor an equal wage.
Ginny thought maybe they had dreams
and when they prayed for the boat’s safe return
perhaps they had hopes for their bairns’ lives
hopes they’d never voice.
The postman’s van crunched on the gravel.
He threw something down on the welcome mat
and shouted up
In a minute Ginny could count out the purple and green flags
and try a bunting kit.
She let down the chest lid.
It wasn’t her petticoat showing that made her blush
and exhale Charlie’s Dead
It was her more than a puckle