I remember the white wave
Of the spreading tablecloth drenching my knees,
Being ramrodded into a high-backed dining chair.
I didn't dare breathe on the damask.
My hair had been wrenched
Into a chocolate box ribbon;
Lavender satin or pink and white check;
And I was kitted out in Clarke's sandals
And immaculate ankle socks.
I wore my best dress with the buttons
Like boiled sweets, sucky sweets -
Green glass like the sharp greengage jelly
We had for tea. There were thin, thin slices
Of bread and butter, so thin you could
See the sky through. In winter
It was white and lacey,
Thick with yellow blisters of butter.
How I hated those slices of bread
Which wouldn't go down.
I remember slender hands slicing the cake,
Pink and white and yellow
As I fought to swallow;
To burst those pustules of butter,
Longing for the sweet vanilla-ness,
The luscious coloured crumbs
Of the feathery, feathery cake
Which the angels made.
By Denise Bennett, Portsmouth.
Daily Echo poet in residence Polly Clark writes: I loved the contrast between the gentleness of the event and the violence of the language used to describe the experience in this interesting, edgy poem.
You can email Polly on polly.clark@soton-echo.co.uk
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