HER FACE I saw her face in the local paper, One hundred years old. Her skull Barely skimmed with skin Impaled on that frail frame, Thin lipped; enduring. The fight still lit her eyes Though now they lay sunken In the shadows of too many years. Her hair blown back like one Facing into the wind; defiant. She carried the lines of private Jokes, shared now only with the dead; But her contented smile, the way it Gently filled her face from the inside; That was beautiful, proud, complete. -- Nigel McLoughlin ("The Leitrim Guardian")