Camp Fire
Marmalade
Some Sunny Day
Camp Fire Kumbaya my Lord we sang around the dancing flames our bottoms on the clay. Kumbaya my Lord we let the notes all high and bright pierce the night and reach the star beneath the eyebrow of the moon. Someoneʼs crying Lord knows who it never would be dry-eyed Jenny Jones she learnt to breathe it in and sing it sweeter than the robin or the boy soprano singing round another fire. Someoneʼs praying Lord knows who it never would be pout-lipped Jenny Jones she learnt to spit it out and ask it quicker than the vicar or the boy soprano singing round another fire. Someoneʼs dying Lord knows who beneath the eyebrow of the moon it always would be air-head Jenny Jones she learnt to break the rules. The devilʼs child plays with fire. The boy soprano always would sing deep and low around another fire. Copyright © 2011 Sally Anne Adams
Marmalade Always in February when the Sevilles sit in the market huddled in naked blemished skins, always in February I revisit the ritual of squeezing juice from pith and pip, quartering and slicing chunky or fine, maybe a dash of whisky according to mood or whim. And always I remember him in that hopeless, peeling kitchen, surfaces agog with pills and unpaid bills, smiling at the ugly Sevilles, measuring the quart of water two pounds of sugar, measuring the sharpness of his well-loved knife, his finger brushing like a close, careful shave. Always in February jars bittersweet filled with shreds like a shoal of golden minnows from once upon a time. I can no longer bear it on the scented memory of toast, so always in February I give it away. Copyright © 2011 Sally Adams
Some Sunny Day If you could see me now I know you would speak in the high space your death has left. I listen to the distant geese on Lackford Lakes the cockerels in the village crowing over and over the crossbills in the pines squeaking like a hinge in need of oil. I listen to my thoughts. You might have been with me on a day like this the sun hot enough to warm the Breckland sand hot enough for ice cream. At 89, as you would have been today, we would ignore the diabetes and soothe ourselves with the sweet cool taste from childhood, both of us silent. Copyright © 2011 Sally Anne Adams