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.