Licking the Spoon
As the huge putty bowl appeared
so did I, abandoning Narnia
and the fire with poppy red coals.
My nine year old ears finely tuned
to those cupboard hinges.
Grandmother’s apron tied in a rush
as one loop dominated the messy bow.
Flour dust sat in her curls and was
smeared on her cheek like an Indian chief.
The scales appeared with the electric whisk,
which now lies in my dresser.
It blended fruit and eggs, butter softened in a cosy kitchen,
flour and toffee coloured sugar, with clever
pinches of spice from small glass jars.
Maybe a splash, a shout of festive brandy
to prolong its life when it’s
snugly wrapped in foil and baking paper.
The large metal spoon was always offered,
as the tin slid onto the middle shelf
where the magic unfolded.
I can taste it now, decades later
the sweetness stark against the
the raisin cinnamon burst,
a shooting star of memory.
About the Poet:
Lorraine Carey was born in Coventry, England and moved to Co. Donegal, aged seven. Her poems have been featured / are forthcoming in the following online journals ; The Honest Ulsterman, The Galway Review, Vine Leaves, Quailbell, A New Ulster, Proletarian, Stanzas Limerick and Live Encounters. Her poems have appeared in two anthologies. Her first collection is forthcoming. She now resides in the picturesque, coastal village of Fenit, Co.Kerry whose wonderful, rugged and bleak (at times) landscape provides perpetual inspiration for poems.
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