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