scones

sitting on the kitchen floor

watching scones rise in the oven

I am pleased with the smell of cooked flour

and the sight of a well-wrought crust

soon they're out and shrinking back

like a shy child

that whimpers between its mothers' legs

I must've overworked them

anathema to my own mother -

she of nimble fingers

unlike my father;

heavy-handed

given to making a mess of everything