Saturday

Saturday

is scone day at the house

of grandparents and the aunts.

Tables against three walls, Kooka

in tiled nook; cold water at the sink

chip heater for hot.

Our grandfather

bangs the back door as the aunts,

starched apron strings in bows

at their backs, take breakfast dishes

to the pine table, satin-smooth and

worn from wetness and wiping.

He reigns

outdoors in bib ’n’ brace over

chooks, hoed rows and incinerator.

Gravel paths walk to cicada shells

we pluck from bark, to rose beds

and the annuals.

Sweet peas

cling to the tennis court fence

snapdragon jaws close softly

on little-bit-scared fingers, poppies

pocket sunsets in crepe cups,

pansies face the sky.

Indoors

flour and buttery milk form dough

knuckle-kneaded on cool marble,

rolled to an inch and cut with a glass.

Young hands shape fat bodies

and heads with currant eyes.

In summer

tea is taken on the lawn at a table on

wheels. A tray holds cups, teapot

in knitted cosy and jam in dishes,

each with a scalloped spoon.

Legs dangling,

I pick the buttons off my scone-man

one by one.