SUNDAYS You follow the thread to your country childhood, hands frozen potato gathering – little slave! the goose’s wet head and a yellow spotted bitter orange in your stocking, your father’s black mare returned unsold. My nine-year-old self plods after you dreaming of toasting marshmallows, you plough forward escaping your six day week. Your bone white hand proudly meets my eye, “The fingers will drop off”. I’m only half impressed and rankle at all you offer me seeing only blank...
