Sunday, 6 April 2014


Your tired back so bent and aching,
Mohair jumper clad, doubled
Over what you're making;
Slicing homemade bread,
Or onions in vinegar,
Silver rings in brown;
Your eyes intent though rather troubled,
Grey-blue pools looking down
Into a bowl of fish,
Small, red sardines lie dead and waiting
To be mashed with ground black pepper,
There's a lump of cheese for grating.
Your arms which seem too long,
Proportions slightly wrong;
A crumble made with homegrown plums,
The top of oats and oil;
Your hands now weak and liver spotted,
But strong wide ended thumbs.
Tinned peaches swimming
In their syrup, in a pyrex dish,
To be doused with tinned 'Carnation',
Four each, I think, we've been allotted;
Fruit malt loaf, dark and thickly buttered,
The kettle coming to the boil,
And a simmering frustration.

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