Breakfast In Winter

I can still see my mother squatting down by the fireplace , 
Putting some sticks over scrunched up newspaper .

She struck a match and lit the paper as smoke arose. 
From the kindle a welcome warmth for us to share.

She would ask me to bring in some coal. 
Then I’d go into the back yard where it was twelve below .
I remember her at the stove stirring the porridge to the boil , 
Outside winter birds left tracks in the snow.

Noticing the water pipes frozen I’d ask.
Am I going to school today ? ”.
My Mother would give me a smile. 
Flames leapt from the coals .
The porridge was hot in the bowls.

”Yes son,

she would say.

“Winter is here for a while.”

By Paul McCann