She tried everything on winter days 
to make us eat it. Dusted the summit 
with demerara sugar, melted  
to caramel lava, moated it  
with evaporated milk, told us 
every mouthful was an item 
from our favourite summer play park: 
this is the see-saw; this is the swings, 
when oats were cheap, and all we wanted 
was Variety Pack, child-sized boxes 
of cartoon-branded e-numbers  
and air that wouldn’t keep us warm. 
 
Now, I love this shaggy, boucle blanket 
the colour of old string, snuggle 
beneath it every frost-locked morning, 
sweet enough for Big Me with chunks  
of windfall apple or grated clementine peel.  
My sister still has Dad’s old bowl, enormous  
as his builder hands, transfer-printed  
with a red rose. At Christmas, 
we use it, our holy relic, anoint it with clotted cream, 
tell ourselves every mouthful is evaporated milk, 
glimpse his reflection in the cracked glaze, 
try to coax her back: this is the see-saw; 
Mum, this is the swings.