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My Mum’s chips
A poem revisited
When I was a sweet, young, innocent lad, we were tasked at school with writing a poem. For some reason, I chose to write about my Mum’s chips.
Always carefully hand peeled, chopped and oven baked, they were delicious.
It’s her birthday today, so I thought I’d send her an updated version of that poem. Although I’m confident she still has that handwritten masterpiece somewhere, I’m sure she’d appreciate something newer and shinier.
My Mum’s chips
My Mum’s chips were a real treat,
That my sister and I would eagerly await.
At the dining table, the family all took their seat,
For once, not even my dad arrived late.
But those times are in the past,
The table and chairs most often bare,
Still my Mum frolics in the kitchen,
Despite us kids not being there.
Old habits die hard, and the tea’s still brewed,
Three or four teapots, every single day.
The garden’s kept blooming, with no leaves to be seen,
The recycling ready to be taken away.
