Souvenir
My daughter could not bring the sun from Greece.
So she arrived, swinging a carrier bag,
Light blue, bristling with Ks, and crammed with sweets.
First, there was nougat, which I knew from slabs
Buried in chocolate, stale black card, as logs
Sulked into Christmas. Later I would taste
French nougat, cream as lace, whose nuts lay crisp,
Wrapped in stiff cellophane, one tiny block.
Nothing prepared me for the look of this:
Greek nougat is as round as sun, a disc
Of pure rice paper, quick as snow on lips.
It breaks and crumbles with a lizard’s kiss,
To nougat thin as petal, subtle honey,
Hazelnuts, as brown as mole. Did manna
Brush each tongue to silk, caress like money?
Music, I thought, lights heaven. This unlocks
A further sun. There is another box.
Alison Brackenbury’s seventh collection is Singing in the Dark, Carcanet. She has recently produced a chapbook of animal poems, Shadow. New poems can be read at her website: http://www.alisonbrackenbury.co.uk
