Maggie Shawlie

I can remember the woman wrapped in a black shawl against the wind Her face wrinkled with age and sorrow Her bag of cockles held firm – a supper for the family coldly waiting Hard poverty her story and her plight We called her ‘Maggie Shawlie’ and thought her strange She was just part of the story of our town We did not greet her nor she us – her dignity Her stance kept her strong – as she gazed at our shop-bought socks And healthy faces - our assumption of a life she could never have. She lived in a tiny cottage off just the main street – a hovel If the truth be known. Her husband died ten years after they were married. Maggie was left to cope all on her own – grief and sadness Overtook her - but she was stalwart – all joy gone – She was determined to survive