A Gooseberry Tart from the Servant Girl
The cathedral doors are flung open,
To choirs cacophonous.
Each parched skin splits,
Scarlet rivers run tumultuous.
Bulbous dribbles cascade through this fine specimen
Of architecture (requested by her mistress).
The knife skids skilfully from beneath the golden pastry,
Well-rehearsed and inconspicuous.
Of gooseberries; a 1 ½ pint
Swollen beads of blood,
Across her skin tripped.
The servant girl plucked,
Thorns from her fingertips.
A gooseberry settles on my tongue, my cheeks are drawn inwards,
Transfiguring my face into a skeleton.
I create a landscape of hunks and ditches as I blanket the green tainted berries in cream
But can only question the sugar distribution.
Pile the fruit in the pie dish and put in the sugar
A ¼ pound of sugar slumped in a heap.
Crackling and glinting amongst scatterings of harsh flavour,
Not harsher mind, than the tongue of the cook,
And the beating I won’t save her.
Line the edge of the dish with short crust, put on the cover
The servant girl fumbled with the pastry.
Her green flecked eyes narrowed in concentration,
I snarl at the pie dish, ‘this is less of a tart.’
And ‘more of an amalgamation.’
Bake in a good oven for about ¾ hour
The pastry dissipates in my mouth, buttery and fragile.
Its warmth lingers like the image of that wretched servant
Scarlet fingertips, green eyes, golden hair?
Of a gooseberry tart she is very much reminiscent.
By Iona Campbell
Worcestershire Young Poet Laureate 2024/5
Keen writer, artist and musician