by Elizabeth Trew
My aunt spoke loud in her Nordic lilt –
louder when she was on the phone,
louder and slower when
she spoke to me.
She was dark stockings and boots
that strode down the hill
and knelt among sheep.
She was mended fishing nets.
We’d sit out in summer under the trees
with a jug of home-made juice.
Inside her house she’d look long
through glass at the waterfall
across the fjord.
Today he is big and strong, she’d say, or
Today he flows softer than before.
She was the steady gaze and the force
of falling water,
a keeper of nets and sheep
and new-laid eggs.
She was mid-summer bonfires along the fjord
and the stamp of boots that carried wood
for the indoor fire.
She was hearty soups and stews came
from her steamy kitchen.
She’d call me to lay the table.
Come eat! Eat and be strong, she’d say.