Cake
“Cake – let’s have cake”,
you said. The same rotund vowels
that robed us in a swish of velvet
drapes drawn swiftly against
an early darkened afternoon,
also bathed us in scents of
mixed sweet spice, citrus,
plumped fruits – and sugar so
sticky-black it may have passed for
road tar in the thickening gloom.
“Toast perhaps?” As I asked, my
tongue lingered long on fancied
butter spreading, sliding, oozing
on a plate – like the skittish soap suds
that slithered off Gran’s hallowed
door-step, down, deep down the
nearest grate.
“No. Cake, please”, you said,
the tips of your blunt-nailed fingers
scarcely grazing mine. “Times like
this - of joy – even the tremulous
joy of sorrow – are best toasted
with cake, tea. Sometimes wine”.
Then there were flowers. And
after an elaborate search behind
your chair, you revealed a riot of
quite unreasonable, unseasonal,
bare-faced colour.
“These unblushing, brazen
blooms”, I said, “seem careless
of their pedigree. Are they not
aware that good breeding requires
that they close their puckered
mouths in public?”
“But they wish to toast you”,
you said, “with cake. Feed
them. Now”.
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© Natalie Wood (06 December 2015)
1 comment:
Time for afternoon tea - yum, yum!
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