My Mother’s Kitchen

 

I’m in my mother’s kitchen

It’s a Monday afternoon

The oven’s heated up the air

The buns will be out soon

Everywhere there’s an aroma

Of cinnamon and spice

An apple pie sits on the table

I’m waiting for a slice

 

A black-leaded coal fire

Does it’s best to dominate

The heat and the smells

That the baking permeates

An old fridge hums in the corner

washing up drying by the sink

hot buttered scones to eat

and Ovaltine to drink

 

She turns to me and offers

The eggshell coloured bowl

Where the batter that produced the cakes

Has tested self-control

With a wooden spoon I scrape until

the empty bowl will gleam

then I sit and smile, contented

like the cat that got the cream

 

I’m in my mother’s kitchen

In the room inside my head

With the smells of Monday baking

Cakes and scones and buns and bread

And I smile again remembering

Those winter days so long ago

In a place of warmth and comfort

From the January snow