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.
