She was bent over, shuffling slowly
Around her dusty and gloomy house
Scowling deeply, each step causing her pain
Her back bent like a question mark
Broken by life, and time, and terrible sights
That had seared themselves into her memories
As effectively as a branding iron.
Her face was a map of wrinkles
Sunk deep, like scars, into dark,
She possessed mighty wisdom;
Deep, deep knowledge that seemed to come
Directly from the gods of old
As though they whispered
Their dangerous secrets into her ears.
Her eyes had watched time unfold
When she was young,
They were a shocking cornflower-blue
That made the boys stop and stare… But now,
They are obscured by a film of milky fog,
And the blue is watery and weak
Like the cold, misty winter sky. Although,
Her old eyes still shine when she speaks
Of her children, and her children’s children
Her skin is sandpaper, her back broken by life
But her heart remains undamaged by
The passing of time.
She is the source of many things
Her huge family stretch from her,
Like the thousands of branches
That stem from the gnarled trunk of a tree:
The ancient heart of everything.