Patterns

Patterns

Do you remember

dripping on toast,

melting, mingling, marbling of meat jelly,

or an oily kipper with buttered bread?

(Mind the bones!)

Scraping with your nails

the frost fronds on insides of windows,

light patterns on the ceiling

from the smelly oil stove at night?

(Don’t get out of bed!)

Hopping across

flower patterns on cold lino,

to reach the rag rug,

making it a game,

pretending the floor was

shark-infested seas,

buttoning rubber liberty bodice buttons

with freezing fingers?

Lining up carrots,

(eat the carrots first),

trying to eat

huge plates of gummy mutton stew

that took an age to chew.

(You have to eat it all.)

Skipping on the pavement,

(don’t tread on the cracks),

tram lines on the road

(Mind! Don’t get your feet caught,)

tall stark skeletons of elms in winter

rooks’ nests clumped together, high up, high up,

(if you see one rook, it’s a crow.

If you see a group of crows, they’re rooks.)

Streets of scrubbed front doorsteps

gleaming white before breakfast,

lines of flapping washing,

(It’s all a competition.)

mothers with hair in sleek victory rolls,

flowery overalls crossed on their chests.

Eerie air raid sirens,

(they have to test them,)

a quarter of a Mars bar each on Sundays,

(special treat,)

mangles and mincers,

galvanised buckets of washing

boiling on the stove.

Do you remember the pattern of the days?