11th May 2021

 

heavy sky
a pigeon collecting twigs
optimism in May

© Rachel Green May 2021

There would always be a pot on the Aga;
my mother's version of Pease Pudding,
where all the leftovers went.
Vegetables, bacon rinds;
the end of a lamb hock.
Every so often, she'd skim off the surface fat
and set it aside for roasting
frying, deep frying;
(cooking chips required a half-hour
just to melt the five pounds of lard.)
My childhood smelled of stewed tea,
smoke from Dad's cigarettes,
my mother's pot of infinite goodness
and the acrid bite of sulphur
from the coke-fired stove.

Is it any wonder
I became vegetarian?

© Rachel Green May 2021