Soup, Sweets and Perfume

Granny, bless her, never owned any perfume.
She baked her sweets with lemon and vanilla.
I sat on the terrace on the old green copper urn
and heard Grandad calling: “Has it boiled yet, Granny?”

Granny, bless her, also made a cabbage soup
while she baked the sweet with lemon. And vanilla.
I sat on the terrace, crunching loudly, cock-a-hoop,
on a cabbage stalk that would feed a whole familia.

My big brother Victor told me off last night
and shouted at me to climb down from the tree.
“Move it, shorty! We’re off to the market, right?”
He eyed the stalls and whispered: “Keep watch for me.”

He reappeared, lugging the great big cabbage,
cuffed me behind the ear and strode away.
We passed a lady tapping by on heels
and slipped into our yard. And into the dusk’s grey.

Sunday came. And by now I was starving.
And glory to Granny — the soup was ready at last.
It steamed in the bowls, and, a little strangely,
Granny... She didn’t come with her spoon to stir and taste.

Granny was waiting for the cake as well, poor dear,
by the oven, smiling. Some thought of her own in her head.
And the little vanilla paper in her hand, held near.
She rubbed it in her hair for perfume instead.