Poetry

Mamgu

It is Saturday
and bun unpinned,
you lean over the sink,
jug water through thin silver.

Brown paper bags saved on string
bring pearled peas from the garden,
gladioli flagging the tented canes.

Seasick from the Crossville bus
we stare at pink blancmange
devilled with coloured strands.

Boiled tea is thickened with torn bread.
Cupping the bowl, you savour the sponged mixture.
‘For my heart, you see’.

Weighing tinned buttons,
we dare each other to sniff handbagged salts,
reeling with tears from the cotton stopper.

Years later, in the camphor of holed clothes
I find your wedding dress,
curled like a silken bird.

Ceris Morris