Category: Monthly poems

It’s birthday time and this poem from 4 years back is the one to post.

Dundee Cake

I made a cake for mum today

a Dundee cake from her

Radiation Cookery Book 1940,

it’s pages stained, parting

from the sombre, dark brown cover.

Nineteen she’d have been,

In that year the Blitz began,

as she read its recipes and guidance

for model housewives.

Did rationing affect her cooking?

Did she stand in line,

wicker basket on her arm,

a headscarf tied, Queen-like,

beneath her chin,

to purchase sugar, butter, eggs?

As they creamed into yellow softness,

not by my hand but in the mixer,

I swear Mum whispered in my ear,

“The water, is it boiled for almond blanching?”

Ah no, I had forgotten.

I was allowed that helping task,

enjoyed the roll of almond in its softened skin,

its play between thumb and index finger,

the satisfying popping out of white nut flesh;

I sometimes finger-licked the cake bowl clean.

Time alone with her was scarce,

came through sewing, she was ever patient,

knitting, when she’d work her needle magic

picking up dropped stitches, making good;

those tables turned a year or so ago.

Growing plants was another of her gifts:

sweet peas twining tall from seed,

their scent heady with summer,

and fruit, currants, red, white and black transformed

into pies and pickles, jams, wine, sometimes cassis.

Who’s going to send me birthday primrose now

garden dug, damp paper wrapped then posted?

Some held a travelling worm or two when opened.

Hand it on, that’s what I’ll do,

send primrose to her spring born grandson.

“I suppose you could,” she whispers, ever understated.

Her independence was that way, untrumpeted;

her money was her own, she always worked,

believed in education, spoke her own political opinion.

She stood by my life choices, even if she disagreed.

So many gifts she freely offered

the last to teach me patient sitting,  

expect nothing, just be present sipping tea

while she talked of home, become a fluid place

straddling nine decades and more of life.

How inadequate these words,

thin slivers of love to you who gave me life.

“Don’t you bother about that, you’ve done your best,

that’s all that matters. Is the cake alright?”

“Yes mum, it looks just like one of yours.”

First frost

Does clarity come today

with this early pristine sky?

A near stillness.

The leaves tremble beneath

the moon hanging patient

as the sun rises to beam,

melt the first frost.

Blackbird clucks alarm

in this suspended time

then falls silent.

This poem, a pantoum, is in memory of Rick Vick, a wonderful, community spirited man of Stroud and fellow poet who died a year ago.

Lost to winter

The cyclamens, the small, pink clump of them,

delicate blooms in the rough autumn verge,

put me in mind of Greek Islands,

which in turn bring to mind your stories.

Delicate blooms in the rough autumn verge,

then passing the top of town poodle parlour,

in turn bring to mind your stories of loving,

living, dreaming on an Aegean paradise.

Passing the top-of-town poodle parlour

I recall your delicate teaching of poetry.

Was living and dreaming on an Aegean paradise

how you found the rhythms held in words?

I recall your delicate teaching of poetry

finding through your gathering of souls a place

where the rhythm held in words

flourished and acceptance grew like flowers.

Finding through your gathering of souls a place,

a community where to create is to breathe

to flourish, and acceptance grew like flowers

whose fading is no broken line, rather stories gone to ground.

A community where to create is to breathe

in exchanges that nourish our blooms

whose fading is no broken line, rather stories gone to ground 

like Cyclamen graecum, small, pink clumps of them.

Zoom

And there you are

Beloveds, in my space

with me. Even if

we’ve never met before

the sight of you warms 

my broken heart. And if

we are already beloved 

of one another, it mends

a little whilst I wait

for your embrace

listen for that knock

on my door. Soon.