My daughter is radiant at noon,
Sunday morning shop girl
cradling an armful of groceries
use-by-today from the village store
custard doughnuts, chocolate croissants,
Coop deluxe pizza, and perched on top
a packet of tender-stem broccoli for me.
My father came home from the City
with fresh walnuts in his briefcase,
bags of dusky pistachios from Greece,
Gruyère cheese from La Suisse.
Every evening the kitchen was filled
with his bounty and tyranny.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Hélène Demetriades
pleased to hear them.