not her’s. No matter. I know
how she formed fancy from sugar and water:
roses in woven work, scrolls, waves.
On a snow day we’d sit in the back-kitchen;
she’d steady my hand, but there was always
something: the piping bag too fat for my grip,
the dummies resistant, their cardboard hard,
nothing like the riches of cake.
They smelled of must, not sweet-soaked fruit
brandied each week since October
with the Georgian crested ladle.
‘It’s practice’ were words of discomfort.
I’d sooner stop, watch her layer
a royale ice rink into winter’s wonder.
Kate Noakes blogs here. Her first collection Cape Town is published by Eyewear.