The dinner queue’s the same again,

the ladies ladling food on to your plate,

using endearments to address you,

because they do not know your name.

“Swede, sweet’art?”

The grinding vowels of the Cardiff accent,

like a food mixer,

its spinning blades supplying sweetness.

“Lettuce, love?”

I think of what is to come,

in a few months’ time,

warm words or cold comments?

Change of school,

change of body,

change of world.

“Ham, honey?”

I said a thank you - and meant it,

to the old aproned angels,

serving spoonfuls of soft-hearted words

“Beans, babes?” “Swede, sweet’art?” “Lettuce, love?”

Haf Davies (11)