Sunday always has that gamey flavour
a secret tilt of baking dish, the table spoon
of flour. My arm in redoubt against a raiding fork,
the last of the potatoes, salty crisp top of mouth.
Toddlers falling off the soft chocolate of family,
lips fat with mutton, mashed peas for chins.
Mint by the gulley trap in a mauve furze of hope,
turned sweet and sour alight in a crystal jug.
The shank bone boiled to briny float
somehow the first glimpse of fallow sea.
James Walton was a librarian, a farm labourer, and mostly a public sector union official. He is published in many newspapers, journals, and anthologies. James is the author of three collections of poetry.
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