Irene Hodson



A solid house
Of ancestral security.

As they gather
To make the occasion
Each has a task—
To smooth the sheets,
Butter bread,
Mind the children
And smile in the sun.

The dark-polished house
Shines in green-gold light.

Little old aunts,
Out of date now
Come into their importance.
Carry history and pass it on
Embroidered for the occasion
Becoming more metaphoric
Every year.

It feels like a good time, and useful,
Though as the sun goes down
It will be dark and cold here on the hill.



Irene Hodson has been scribbling for some thirty years and gathering rejection slips for the last three. She lives on Waiheke Island near Auckland, writes poems and stories for all ages, also articles and the odd song. She is engaged in writing a weekly magazine letter of puzzles and serialized stories for her eighth grandchild.