Growing Pains

It was warm in our grandma’s scullery –
painted gloss-green; the copper was on
for our weekly Friday bath, and the slip
and the slap of her spoon as she stood
by the stove making jam, kind of soothing.
My sister and me, sat frantically sewing.
‘Our gymslips, torn on the brambles,’ or so
we fibbed to Gran. We were shortening them
by a mile, hoping she’d turn a blind eye.

Love-struck, we were in those days. Venus
in alignment with Mars, or so our stars said.
Hormones all-awry, we took it as a sign.
Summer pudding for tea; a bowl, brim-full
of luscious red fruits. Scraping our fingers
round our dish – daubed juice on our lips –
ran outside. The cute boy next door gave us
that look, when he saw our florid cupid’s bows,
said, “Go play with the traffic. Come back,
when you grow into them.”