After Benediction

They say confession is good for the soul....

In the sitting room,

after Benediction,

when the Holy Ghost had settled on us,

O Salutaris Hostia,
most of us

would sit and watch

Going for a Song,

while Mum

or sometimes Dad

would put tea on the

trolley.

Then there would be

the squeaking of the wheels

and the gentle

clanking

of crockery,

Songs of Praise,

the large aluminium teapot,

the blue and white striped milk jug,

a family of mugs,

and knives and plates

jostling as the trolley wheels

found the edge of the carpet.

General purpose

noise and reaching

and spreading

of butter on bread,

white with dark crusts,

golden syrup,

bramble jelly,

Honeyboyhoney

in a large plastic tub,

Swiss roll,

Cadbury’s chocolate minirolls,

cup cakes,

Oaty wonder,

Mr Kipling

Jaffa,

Club

When the lemon yellow toaster had been bought

it would hide behind the sofa

and Dad would reach us slice after slice

of golden slice,

and hand them to Mum

who would

meltingly butter them

and spread them

with Golden Shred

or

blackcurrant jam.

In the absent mindedness

of preparing to eat,

I flicked my finger

and the large and luscious

mucus string

that I had just collected from my nose

found its way carelessly

into the air,

descending from the peak of its parabola

as Kate raised

her honey-dripping toast

to her mouth.

And there was another settling,

Tantum Ergo Sacramentum

a landing

and a shriek

and a shaming

and a reddening of cheeks

and a cutting off of corners,

and a

private

hopeful, yet doomed

resolution

as the bogie laden fragment

sizzled in the Parkray.