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A Rubbing of Hands
Elsie, Lucy, Olive, this small boy's remarkable old aunts.
Oh, how they rubbed their hands.
But with glee or sorrow? Or even anger?
Elsie had a strict-looking expression -
when not rubbing her hands.
Lucy wore spectacles that pinched her nose
and, oh, had such a thin smile -
when not rubbing her hands.
Olive seemed serious, often frowning at me -
when not rubbing her hands.
But when they were rubbing their hands
they were ridding those hands of
flour that helped to make a cake or of
flour that helped to make a Yorkshire pudding or of
flour that helped to make joy -
the joy of making that cake or that Yorkshire pudding;
or of spiteful expressions they might wear when sneering
at this small boy, who would have to eat
their cakes or their Yorkshire pudding, or absorb
their sneers - sneers that were also smiles.
We remember our aunts in
the most remarkable ways.
I was a small boy.
(April 2023)
(Elsie appears in two other poems: "Aunty Elsie's Bathroom" and "Coronation for a King")
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