Wartime Romance
 
My father was a stickler for routine,
so when my mother swung into his life
with jazz and gin
it caught him slightly off guard.
 
He examined his heart for defects
and found the murmur of love
delicious, seductive
infecting the cells in his blood.
 
While he patched up the wounded
she hunkered down in the underground
grateful for the rush of air
igniting the fireball inside her.
 
Lazy sex on weekends off 
bled into marriage, children post war,
colours leeched from her soul
replaced with a greyness he hated.
 
He busied himself, filling the kitchen
with the warm waft of crust and cake,
his spider scrawl methodical
ticking each list like a pulse.
 
I watched his knuckles knead
the rounded belly of dough, shortly before
placing it to prove, impatient,
the swell of concern rising.

Kate Young

 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Kate Young would be pleased to hear them