Paper round

Perched on her porch,
she rocked away days,
sunlight cajoling her hair
into thinking it was golden
once more.

I stopped by on Sundays,
for that was the only
newspaper worth reading,
she told me. Her craggy face softened
when I lowered my bike and walked
the plastic-wrapped paper to her lap.

For my troubles, a humbug,
and a story or two
from a bowl that never ran dry.

Through the desert of December,
her porch was an oasis
of iced lemonade,
and straight-backed lavender
soldiers in pots.

Then the grey shades of August
set Magpies to nesting
and swooping invaders,
of which there were many.
The first was the oldest
and came in the night
to steal her stories
for himself.

The second, a gardener
to tame the bruised lavender
ranks, before the new dawn
arrived.

The last, a daughter
to remove the news,
still shrouded in plastic,
for her mother never had learned
to read.