It was the smell of my childhood: hot stew,
warm heap of floured rolls
you cut for me, buttered
  then closed in my fist. I complained
my mouth was burning,
pressed my tongue to the soft blister
left by potato and juice. You took the spoon
from me, cooled a cube of swede with your breath.
I trusted you, took a shy bite.
Older now, and hairless, you tear cheap bread
with a bored hand, sigh quietly over your spoon
  and pretend to eat. I spin a thin ribbon of leek.
Nothing in common between us now
but a bowl of chewy lamb, our unpalatable small talk.


1 Comment

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One response to “Cawl

  1. michaelcymru

    I like that, sad ‘though it is, but I can’t stand cawl!

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