Victoria Sandwich (Poetry)

Tea time in the parlour on damp, Sunday afternoons,
with visitors, Crown Derby and antique Apostle spoons;
the ticking of the bracket clock; the coughing of great-aunts;
as dust discreetly settles on the Aspidistra plants,
and Mother pours an amber stream of Twinings best Assam,
while we politely pass the plates of pinkly boiled ham.

The bread and butter mountains are eroded, one by one,
as appetites accommodate, down to the final crumb,
the edible arrangements set in careful, crust-free piles,
consumed by ancient relatives with all but toothless smiles,
who eagerly anticipate the table’s centre piece —
the queen of cakes baked specially by a dutiful great-niece.

Their eyes behold perfection glowing golden on its stand —
tradition’s airy texture conjured by a practised hand —
a circular confection, sugar-sprinkled and entire
with a subtle lattice imprint from the cooling tray’s thin wire,
while the filling oozes crimson, spills a home-grown berry stain
on the doily crisply edging its bright heirloom-glass domain.

The ritual never varies — Mother cuts each dainty slice
and the aunts agree, in chorus, that the jam is awfully nice,
then both accept another wedge, ignoring creaking stays
until, replete, they sink into a geriatric daze,
dab frosts of sugar from top lips, brush stiff, arthritic knees
and mumble, mostly to themselves, their own sponge recipes.

It’s time, at last, to gather up their gloves and crocheted shawls,
summoned by a peal of bells as evening service calls
the faithful from warm firesides where compassion contemplates
the plight of those denied the modest luxury of cakes,
while Mother wraps in grease proof further portions as we breathe
a quiet relief and watch the pair of pious ladies leave.