The smell of toast, the squeak of the gate,
The clink of cup upon saucer.
Scented candles, clean, cotton sheets,
‘Why don’t you have a bath, love? There’s plenty of hot water’

Endless mugs of half-sipped tea,
Countless laughs I cannot smother,
An itchy tartan blanket, Radio 4:
A Sunday with my Mother.

An immoveable grin is mine for the day,
Drunk on sleep and warmth and love.
The papers, the crosswords, trash TV:
A Sunday with my Muv.

Plates of biscuits, bowls of crisps,
Matching napkins, though the only guest is me,
Sarnies with the crusts cut off:
A Sunday with my Mummy.

The jokes we have, the tales we tell,
My home is wherever they are.
Total, utter, unspeakable bliss:
A Sunday with my Ma.

Cait MeredithComment