She remembers him waving.
He fixed the lemon tree with salt,
carved his name on the wooden spoon
she used for mixing pikelets. She said
she’d wait. This was before.
Now the Band packs up her troubles…
The club went south to tramp.
One day the boys played bulrush.
She made scones and apple shortcake.
He whipped the cream, sneaked a lick
from the beater. This was before.
In her old kitbag…
The Lieutenant-Colonel sings,
the minister prays — reads a poem,
talks about sacrifice. She smells
mint, remembers the tomato sauce.
She’d sterilised the bottles.
Now there’s a Lucifer to light your fag…
It all got spilt, the spoon was broken,
the bottles, her arm. He got a warning
from the constable after he chopped down
the lemon tree, the frame on the photo
of him smiling. This was after.
And the band smiles and smiles and smiles…
This is after of course.
Renée
