An Onion Poem

A lot of the time people assume that anything an author writes must be autobiographical, especially a poem. Sometimes it is but not always. I remember reading about a Gilbert O'Sullivan tour in the US where Americans wrongly assumed he was an orphan because of his song Alone Again Naturally.

What I'm trying to say is that the following poem is not autobiographical - except for the bit about those onions that have seen better days before you even get them home from the shops.

Onions

I tug at the cellophane.

Its crinkle-sealed edges refuse to part.

Each Spring Dad dug the earth

round the back of the outside loo

and planted sets in rows.

I rummage in the drawer beneath

spatulas and holed plastic spoons.

He hoed and tended them after work.

He showed them off to visitors.

He won rosettes with them.

The scissors splits the cellophane

like a spade through well-tilled soil.

He pulled one from the earth each day

and took it in to Mum.

That first slice would bring tears to her eyes.

A base of moulded polystyrene

cradles soggy, brown orbs.

His spade would glisten from the care of a well-oiled rag.

Now it is wrapped in cobwebs

and hung on a nail in a silent shed.

I bin cellophane, polystyrene and oozing onions

and wipe a tear from my eye.