Is it that hint of scent, that trace,
That fleeting airborne draft?
Or that glance as walking past the glass
A caught reflection holds me
Briefly in a pause as I recall
Or is it as I pull the dough
And draw the flour?
My dusted hands become her hands.
Her almond nails dance on the board,
Deftly moulding into shape,
To fit so plumply in the pan.
A hem let down, a stitch unpicked,
A button sewn, a frayed edge caught –
Weak echoes of her needle craft.
Water sprayed upon dry clothes,
Heated fabric fills the air
And there she stands, iron in hand.
I see my fingers rub my thumb –
Her gestures seep,
Invade my skin.
Fingers laced behind my back –
A steady gait, a quiet style –
Her walk now mine.
What once was loose, feels tauter now.
It pulls me back. That trace, that hint.
And time reveals that nothing’s lost –
The past breathes gently on my face.
Linking this to Sarah’s prompt at d’Verse Poets tonight to write a cooking-inspired poem.(https://dversepoets.com/2022/01/11/tuesday-poetics-food). To be honest, the cooking aspect is a tenuous link to a poem that is really about the enduring links we keep within us of those long gone. My mother was an excellent baker, however, and her lemon meringue pie was second to none!
I once wrote a daft rhyme about it:
Love Poem to a Lemon Meringue Pie
Is it your lemon that I love so much?
With the zing of the zest on my tongue.
Or the crisp-topped meringue, like a cloud of delight,
To your sugary spell I succumb.
Your pastry is perfect in every respect
As it melts in my amorous mouth.
With passion I love thee, you sweet peaky pie,
You’re a dessert divine there’s no doubt.