Elevenses

To the memory of my dear mother, pastry ace










A feigned illness was all that it took
On most mornings to get me off school
With a vague tummy ache, I watched you cook
And licked the sweet mixture from the bowl
Carefully, you rolled out each hour
The world had contracted to just us
Your practised hands melded butter and flour
To fulfilment – perfect happiness
Surely, it is an act of faith to bake
A lesson in travelling hopefully
But the mixture tastes better than the cake
You would observe, ironically
For our elevenses, we were two
Wrapped in a circle of light, me and you