The Snapping Scissors

Her love is given in straight cut chips, sun burned bake beans and brown sugared fish fingers.

Cowering in the habit of the same

Her program runs autonomously for the duration of its daily washing cycle

Concerned with cotton buds, temperatures above 104 and whooping cough.

In youth, her own guard, (as she was guarded from her life) said no to the outside and the away team’s approach;

Said no to the snapping scissors and no to the short skirts and blouse job.

She was trained to be the perfect kitchen hermit, the milk maid, the chalice of tradition.

Some others burned their padlocks and shouted for sports cars and the snapping scissors.

Instead, she gave all her tradition to her flock. But those snapping scissors never died.  Instead they patently perforate away at her apron,

showing up invisible holes; an epitaph to a youthful mind.

Along with straight cut chips and Lancashire rag puddings she passed onto her young their own padlocks.

Paddling hand in hand in cool blue; shapes of strength throw into the air,

images and recollections of a mothers smile in the sun drenched shadow of strange places;

stories of imprisoning dragons then later opportunities of choosing fish fingers or the snapping scissors.

20^th June 2003