Everything scrubbed down and scrubbed again.

Every room followed its own lighted passage,

singing out its corners and the polished dark.

The makeshift altar set, she moved from room

to room, pelting the floors with her slippered walk.

Down in the kitchen the beautiful spread of meals,

the little locks and curls of butter flaring sunlight.

We were like her sentry guards in doorways,

bare-foot, sweeping for motes and blemishes

or eyeing hiding places that suddenly stood clear.

Roses, silver, lace. The glasses breathed against.

Then the gravel-call of priest and neighbours

up the lane and we were all come and go again,

herself gone ahead of us down the last swept path,

snapping incantations, scattering light.