Pudding
We ate our meals with hair-raising intensity.
Corked our ears in the joy of savouring,
bored by repetition as the iron grip of history
held Dad in full throat.
His achievements poured over our meals like sauce,
invited cheers, a promise to follow.
We felt pounded. Rolled like dough
into ginger-bread replicas.
His bright-future plans hot as spice in our eyes.
His hope as urgent as a pregnant woman’s
craving for chutney and ice cream.
Everything became easier with compliance
—silence helped to brave both lives
—ours, in which we climbed, grazed knees,
peered through knot holes, scrumped apples,
and the one Dad lived for us, neat as napiery.
Our lives were a table laid with possibilities,
birthday cakes markers of endurance,
taking us closer to success, wealth, comfort for him
in his white-haired armchair years.
His voice would flavour the very air,
wrap our fingers en-croute as they clutched knives,
forks, held just so, as he desired.
We would simply wonder what pudding might be.
Miki Byrne has had three collections of poetry published and work included in over 170 respected poetry magazines/anthologies. She has won poetry competitions, been placed in others and read on both Radio and TV. Miki began reading her work in a Bikers club in Birmingham.