THERE are echoes of the Irish folk song "Twas on a Monday morning when I beheld my darling" in this chronicle of a woman's working week.

The focus, however, is not romantic but maternal. The writer is the Orcadian George Mackay Brown (1921-1995) and the piece is a testament to his own mother. The poem first appeared, posthumously, in The Herald in 1996.

THE MOTHER

On Monday she stood at the wooden wash-tub,

Suds to the elbow,

A slave among the storm-gray shirts and sheets.

Tuesday she pegged the washing high -

The garden a galleon in a gale!

Then lamplight, the iron, the crisp sun-smelling folds.

The rooms thrummed with Gaelic rhythms,

A low monotone, on a Wednesday

(And every day), ancient Celtic work-spells.

She was never free like the lipsticked shop-girls

On Thursday afternoon; all her tasks

Were like bluebells in a jar on the window-sill.

On Friday she rose above textures of oat and barley

Into the paradise of cakes.

I licked cream from the wooden spoon.

Saturday night, I followed her basket and purse.

The grocer, silver-spectacled, was king

Of the apples, cheeses, syrup, sweetie-jars, cloves.

We sat, seven, in the high pew on Sunday.

After the psalms, her paper poke

Made sweet thunders all through the sermon.