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Memories are stored in many ways.


Memories bubble with marmalade.
The soothing rhythm of spoon and liquid
gold and tawny colours blending,
rising scent of Seville orange and sugar
weave a spell of beneficial magic.
I see a girl in my mother’s kitchen
squeezing lemons, slicing oranges
collecting pips in muslin bags.
I watch the pressure cooker hiss and steam
awed by this domesticated dragon.
A swirl of steam, the memory shifts.
A January phone call – Mum was ill –
a heart attack while making marmalade.
Dad bewildered, sick with shock
pointed to a bowl of orange slices.
I bottle memories with marmalade
clear as amber, sweet and tart.

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