The Smell of Sundays (for my mother). by Patrick Jones
Poetry
by Patrick Jones
especially the afternoons,
my mother, ironing
listening to the radio,
the archers omnibus or football
steamed up windows
fragments of security stored,
delicately
supremely
safety framed in the freshly folded jumper
waiting for the panic of morose monday mornings
and the drumming dread of
double maths and simultaneous equations,
no,
not
yet,
just the roar of the crowd
on the radio as the ball hits the net,
and
the smoothness of cotton sheets
the hiss and swirl of steam,
this contraband of hope
and
my
mother’s hands
ironing
out
the
creases,
for now