seasons
He had a German mother
We both called her Lottie,
Her other name
Must’ve been unpronounceable
For a young’un.
She made a crumble
Apple, Cox of course,
With hand-picked
Bramble-berries.
The hot orange glow
Of oven baking delight,
Made sticky purple bubbles pop
From out of the fruit mesh.
And then Christmas time, in German time,
Although this was Somerset,
Everything happened early, Dec. 24th:
The tree, a green marvel, attended
With real candles, each one hand lit
By Lottie, gleamed like medals.
But the real memory, the trigger
To this letter
Comes from a few months after.
Her blue eyes cold and bright
In the mid morning light, focussed on the screw
That had pierced the wall
Or rather she looked at the hole it had left in her home.
Carefully she squeezed the tube of plaster
And watched the white putty fill in the gap.
With a finger she wiped away the excess.
Her lips pursed together tight as she painted over
The breach that soon disappeared with a stiff smile.
Oliver’s father, a Royal Navy man,
Never even noticed
When he returned that autumn.
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