Friday 22 April 2016

Out went macaroons

When I was twelve and fat, my mother stopped baking. 
Out went macaroons, and butter sinking
slowly through hot scones. Out went rock buns
with their shy request for half an egg. In came
Ryvitas, dry as dead men’s ashes. In came 
skimmed milk measured in a 20-calorie jug. 

Behind closed doors, soft bags of ground almonds
still rubbed shoulders with bottles of vanilla essence 
and cochineal. Shelves were sticky
with the pink rings of glace cherry tubs, immanent 
with the rattle of cake racks against blackened tins. 

Greaseproof sheets still jammed the drawer 
but my mother’s back was turned. In fear she went
shop-bought, hid Wagon Wheels 
in the spare room wardrobe. I stole them often: 
ate whole packets in one go, to keep the crime clean.

Her cookbooks, plump with cuttings, look modest
on my shelf. Her inked instructions are neat 
and strict. ‘Bake in deep tin – it rises!’ ‘Heat but 
do not boil!’ Despite my broken waistline, these days
I bake often, finding her in the sweet density 

of marzipan, the bitter puff of burnt currants. 


Mandy Sutter.
The Knowledge

It passes by unrecognized
as the years spin;
no cake, cards, candles celebrate
birthday’s darker twin.

To moles that burrow in the earth,
to beetle, moth and crow,
death comes to everyone at last
but we’re the ones who know.

The blackbird sings to greet the day,
his voice is sure and strong.
He doesn’t know that he will die,
what matters is the sun, the sky,
what matters is the song.

Jenny Dixon.
From her latest collection, 'Marking Time'.

Friday 15 April 2016

MATA-ATUA 1                                        The first voyaging canoe & Air New Zealand Boeing 777.


Cloud stitcher,

celestial elephant.

He’s all the sevens,

two Barlick turbos, 2 Rolls Royce, Barnoldswick.

and a Koru on his tail. 3 Maori, Spiral design.



Up there,

six minutes to Lockerbie,

thirty thousand feet

and the seat belts’ sign off.

Time for a Bourbon on the rocks,

a Chardonnay

and another ten hours to LA.


Now - below,

I sit in my Yorkshire garden

and everyday,

six miles away,

his white yarn

stitching the clouds, he goes.

I raise my glass and say

“Haere Ra! Maori, Farewell.

Haere - Haere - Haere.”