Poetry

In the big old white house against the hill
my mother had a pantry, a secret place
which she locked,
where she kept ingredients
for cakes, cookies, ginger beer
and all the lovely surprises that she made
 
and there were baking powder,
icing sugar, raisins, cherries
and dried fruit
and sometimes I would wiggle
the lock open
with a small piece of wire
 
and just looked at the shelves
with stacked things,
in the twilight of the room
trying catch the great smell
of everything around me,
but wouldn’t dare to touch a single thing.