I don't seem to have the knack
of forcing my children to eat things they don't like
but later adore.
I dangle pork pies above their sleeping noses
in the hope they will dream about
and crave the jelly between the pink and crust.
Or will they come to appreciate
the sublime silkiness of tinned pears
with tinned milk, on a wet Sunday
with the shops shut and Upstairs Downstairs on the tele.
What hope they will ever know
the taste of bird's tongue and top of the milk
on frozen snowy mornings,
mornings so cold the thick warm cream
froze your teeth, in equal proportion
to the three teaspoons of sugar, on each Weetabix.
They will never the agony
of school summer milk, curdled to the taste of crayons.