My father-in-law wields his stick at kitchen air Let’s see your catch then, he says. I produce my fishing basket boasting Waitrose finest shrimp, unwrapped. I know good Archirondel stock when I see it, he says. A drop of wine will set them off good and proper. Cup of tea more like, I say. Same as all the rest, buying into that health stuff. Dad stick-leans to the basket, pokes the packaging in the bottom. I’ll manage — I quite like those ping-pong meals, and I do a darn good pan of fried toms. That’ll keep the vet away. I avoid Mum’s bereft seat, pour two glasses of red.
Archirondel is known as a good low water fishing bay in Jersey
If you see them, buy them, feet are bigger these days
I recall Gran’s advice,
return with a full carrier.
A few million shoe-steps —
try on jobs, leave home,
give birth, don’t learn to knit,
or cook. Move out, move in.
The charity bin’s echo-clonk —
shoulder-pad work no longer fitting.
Crazy-hair poet, kitchen dancer,
sixty year old mermaid.
The green and white bag on Mum’s table —
ten untouched pairs, white court shoes, size 2.
Where she perches on our front wall
too far, the pansies squawk,
not enough, her stick jostles the pavement.
You ought to plant bizzies, she says
they’d like it here.
She’s tugging on clover,
her face bathed in low autumn light.
How’s the little one today?
I smooth the pram blanket,
hold my bundle close.
I had a babby once, she says,
for a while.
Flight of the dragonfly 