Peace in Our Time

I recall a doll’s house Dad once made
from a cardboard box; it had doors
that actually opened, and windows
hung with tiny blinds he’d sewn
himself, out of off-cuts. I remember
a clanky, Mobo scooter, and a leaky,
tin bathtub – our paddling pool,
in summertime. There was the pink
of calamine lotion – I always got
so sunburned, and my sister and me
kept caterpillars in a jam-jar, and knew
the secret path – led onto the alley,
where we’d meet the boy next door
who’d teach us things we had yet
to understand. I remember my nan,
wringing wet, over black-leaded stove,
stirring jam...wiping sweat with the hem
of her pinny – our once-upon-a-time,
kitchen curtains. There was no smell,
save a smell of blueberries; simmering.
No sound, except the cussing, under
her breath, and the silky, slip-and-slap
of her wooden spoon.