Apple peel spirals, the big mixing bowl
sailor-striped and chipped as old teeth:
a tickle of cinnamon, scratch of nutmeg.
Great waves of sugar, the flour and suet
scooped and folded, stroked or beaten.
A battered square tin: perhaps the rust
improves the flavour. Heave the gloop in,
feel its suck and pull, the letting go
clinging as embraces on a quayside.
Food for cowherds, trawlermen. You
anchored the ordinary, reeled us from winter
to a fading light swollen with scents of apples.
This poem won first prize in the Guernsey International Poetry Competition, 2016 and will appear on one of Guernsey’s buses.