old goats

Old goats flank a roaring blaze
    in a fireplace of mottled stone;
they lower their heads and gaze
    through fossil eyes with thoughts
as old as the inland sea that once
    covered their bedrock home.

My grandmother came to Banff
    in the mid-twentieth century, spending
her widow’s mite to see the world.
    Not yet a winter destination
it was fashionable and green
    and ladies dressed for tea,
stilting on patios in high heels
    breathing in mountain crispness.

Now old goats, we spend our children’s
    inheritance making memories
to warm them when we are
    in the ground and fossilized,
cold stone, offering warmth
    on a winter’s day.

Liz McFadzean