Bridie – Final Scratch Edit

21 Feb

Really sorry about my late entry. For technical things: I’d like a spotlight to go down for a couple of seconds and then back up again wherever it says *** in my poem, if possible. Thanks guys.

Dinner at Home

Christmas cracker hat rustles
and banter cackles lift baggage
of a blood-linked gang –
Granny, Grandpops,
Cousin, Aunty, Cousin,
Ma, Pa,
Brother, brother.

Wonky table bustle
over TV mumble.
Buck’s Fizz glass
in low-rank hand.

Granny’s white-blonde beehive crown
shines over a pot of mash.
Rainbows of root veg sprout
among crockery mainland
and meaty chunks bathe
in gravy hot springs.
We roam the land
of home.


Table cloth, pots and gobs
packed up. Fingers trace patterns
of a crumb-sprinkled rug.
Granny, Grandpops,
Cousin, Cousin,
Brother, brother.

52 card pickup shuffle
over TV mumble.
Teddy bear mug,
Jammy Dodger dunk.

Our pillow fortress on the carpet holds
cuddly dumpling dish remnants,
lifted away as Grandpops
jokes about the chickens
going cheap down ASDA.
AWOL parents prompt
special force biscuits.
Come home.


Bleach-clean kitchen floor gleams
as the oven hums
a garlic bread requiem.
Ma, Pa,

Conversation fumble,
no TV mumble.
Red wine slosh,
glass stained with lip gloss.

Spaghetti plate procession advances forth.
An ironed shirt and painted face
pretend to forget the war.
Hair strand trigger
pulled from Pa’s plate.
SPLAT – tomato sauce
drips on enemy floor.
Broken cease-fire,
broken home.


Smashed plant pot haunts hallway, walls
splashed in blue-grey shadows
and argument bean stains.

Tear ducts mumble
under TV thunder,
door slam bombs, and tequila vomit chunks.

Trotter soup explodes in the microwave,
pig fat picked from crevices,
swallowed, a fake “Yum.”

Ford Focus tank revs

to leave the territory
with refugees in search
of mint ice cream valleys.
And now,
there’s nobody home.


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