When Dad’s away my mother blooms,
a princess in peachy lace,
gives the hoover the run around
serenading the baby on her satin hip.
We feast on scrumbled eggs and tin salmon
cross-legged on old magazines in front of the telly,
let the baby suckle to kitten-soft sleep,
leave the fairies the dishes.
Night-time my brother takes the dog to bed
and I whisper waking spells,
crossing fingers three times, three times, three o’clock,
to tiptoe to the big bed
and lie in the lee of her back.
Miranda Lewis 2016
