It just sits there, buttering.
Nothing special, or is it?
The depth
The power
The luxury.
‘Nan, Nan, can I have some more cake?’
‘Ask nicely Matthew’
‘Please Nan!’
‘Yes help yourself’.
The cake slices, the butter accompanies.
Inside, outside, slithered upon.
Dripping with heat
Sliding through teeth.
Oh yes, it’s just butter.
But the dish,
years later,
after her passing,
beyond the memories:
it just sits there,
promising:
the healing.
In Love, Matt xx
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