Tea and Battenburg

Pressing iron to cloth Nan whistled flutes Before cigarettes brought Cavalries of blood and mucous Routed by a curious handkerchief Initialled ‘SF’. Pressing lead to tabloid Grandad scoffed battenburg Peeling off the marzipan Quartering the sponge He only ate the yellow Yet never told me why. Nan sat down for her programme Grandad mashed some tea Balancing a tray of chipped china And a new pack of cigarettes That grandma would smell Savouring the deadly veils. Next summer I found my Grandad Whistling like Grandma. He held her in his mottled hands Crying in a frayed red handkerchief, Initialled ‘SF’ By a photo of her secret son. His name was Stephen Forrester And all of a sudden Battenburg and tea tasted different.