in the autunm after jumble sale mrs cotters jam
or mrs laynes lemon curd would line up
beside the echo margarine the currants the homepride
that brush that lived below the breadknife
and smelt of sour milk and
the grated the cheese bicarbonate of sodium
for baking day
dampened by early winter rain
colder than the dusting summer my fingernails black
from digging trenches for the unpainted army
in order to help first I would wash to the elbows
returning to the find the first round of pyrex pasty
the scales with the rust caught weights
imperially numbered for their solemn jury duty
hands smacked pushed aside softened margarine squeezed
and pulled into it longed for burial
beneath the cairn of currents or bathe it's wounds in milk
baking day was serious schooling
forehead mopped with the back of the wrist
the heat of the oven plate
turned knife trimmed pies
maids of honour lording it over jam tarts
tap topped fruit loaf
and the oddments made of spare pastry pigs
mustardy cheese straws
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