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