28. Sundays

As if by magic, our Sunday joint
was always cooked and ready to be carved
when Billy Cotton shouted 'Wakey, Wake...y' from the wireless.

I watched the long knife settle in the warm soft flesh
setting free sweet juices, my mouth moist
imagining the taste of this first slice, always reserved for Dad.

'Your dinner's on the table' Mum's same words welcomed him home,
we didn't have lunch back then. Fresh from the pub he winked,
his plate piled high because he was a man.

After, he went to bed to catch another forty,
Mum, lips pursed, followed soon after, the door closed firm behind her
leaving me to pass the time with Enid Blyton.


Held together by this weekly ritual set in stone, I  know why
our lives had seemed so simple, innocent childhoods
where secrets are kept veiled from those so young.