Cravings
We spatulaed sticky fingers
round the Kenwood mixing bowl,
smeared with sugar-butter-flour-egg,
rich and sweet as mother’s milk could be.
The locus of my mother’s love
was in the kitchen, singing as she cooked
because meals made with love
nourish in a special way, she claimed.
But when I dream about my mother’s house
the kitchen is so small, and in my dream
I hunt
for any way
to make it bigger.
Rose Lennard
If you
have any thoughts about this poem, Rose Lennard would
be pleased to hear them
