The Taste Of A Biscuit
From Things You Find in a Poet's Beard by A.F. Harrold
I remembered how I used to play with my mum.
As a kid, in the kitchen, we would bake together.
Now, though she’s gone,
and although I’m grown up
and can care for myself, can cook for myself,
although I don’t need her to wash my hair or buy my clothes
or hold my hand as I cross the road,
still it was nice to know she was always there, just in case.
Looking through her drawers after she’d died
I found, buried down, tucked away at one side
a little plastic thing, shaped like a star,
that I hadn’t seen for twenty years or more,
that we used to use to cut biscuits from rolled out dough.
And it was just this that I remembered today,
while chatting with friends about other things.
As if I took a cookie to dunk in my tea
it was as if the memory crept up on me,
and sadness came along hand in hand and hugged me.