Miss Bun has no interest in baking.
She wants to be a florist, a confectioner
in roses. She dreams of inhaling
the sugared scent of freesias and stock,
a dusting of pollen yellowing her hands.
Master Bun has a wheat allergy,
can’t touch the stuff. He used to
pinch the arms and legs from the winking
gingerbread ladies, but he broke out in hives.
He’s thinking about banking or maybe the law.
Mrs Bun plays the piano night after night.
Her tall hat, balanced on the baby grand,
wobbles like a custard tart as her arpeggios
rise to the ceiling. The empty armchairs and
the radio applaud as she takes her bow.
Mr Bun wipes up the chocolate smears
from the last éclair, sweeps up the crumbs
from loaf and macaroon. Bread tins glint, ready
for the morning. He pockets a jam doughnut
and pulls down the shutters as he leaves the shop.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Susannah Hart would be
pleased to hear them.