Cake

It comes, as heavy as a stone,
Seasoned reminder of a Mother’s love,
Of old aromas, when the oven drove
Slow-fired fruit into a loam.

We unwrap the dark intoxicated fruits
Shelved with marzipan and ice.
Gifted more than food, each slice
Presents the distant son his roots.

A Belfast kitchen, and hands articulate
In unplanned solitude, an urgent life –
Zest of lemon, bitter spice –
Yours always the practical estate,

Laundered shirts the kindness,
That clothed the incorrigible brood
Who leapt to life both lean and rude
And a ‘Protestant’ meal inside us.

Still you’re there, as outwardly adorned
And inside deeply layered as cake,
Which our bright Christmas make,
No emptied tin so deeply mourned.