My mother’s house is a place of refuge
A modest detached bungalow set in
A quiet cul-de-sac, a place to soothe
The frayed nerves; mouth opens, she puts food in
She may not be an expert at cooking
But there’s nothing quite like what mother cooks
An omelette with bacon and cheese melting
Heats me up, produces ravenous looks
We both went to Geoff’s daughter’s, where we tucked
Into some turkey breast. It wasn’t huge
My dessert appetite was not trifling
Three helpings of trifle and still not fucked
And so Merry Christmas, even to Scrooge
To Santa and, of course, to Josephine
Thur 25 Dec 2008
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