May Baked the Best Sweet Apple Tarts
Tart, sugar-tamed Bramleys’, snuggled
beneath a crisp, sun-kissed, pastry crust,
steamed fragrant wafts from the scullery
to sniffs and swallows and smacks of lips,
licked and wiped on the backs of sleeves
while impatient bellies rumbled.
She smiled, blessed our Sunday sighs and
stooped over the warm apple pie,
floury fingers sliced fat wedges
on to bone china plates, and served
with cold, whipped cream to be devoured
by the fireside in the front room.
Cut glass vases filled with poppies,
flickered red the flames’ reflection,
peonies with papery petals,
disobedient against stems
of misty white baby’s breath
and catkins of pussywillow,
wilted with a fanciful droop.
We’d wriggle on cushioned chairs
protected with antimacassars
and tease our fingers through
flokati rugs and chenille tassels
to ruffle out the crumbs
that missed the napkins on our laps,
drink cups of sweet, weak tea
and savour the baker’s best
with small-toothed smiles and empty plates.
