Ah que bella!
Dad strolls from the city bus,
trilby tilted jaunty as always.
Blue touch paper’s under his arm –
pasta waits to explode.
A brown bag holds garlic, its white skin
rustles as he brings this regular
pay day treat from Fazzi’s.
In our mod-con formica kitchen
green oil and red puree sizzle
turning scot’s mince into magic.
Sunshine in a pot.
Our dreams smell of Dad’s Italy,
the only wartime smell he mentioned.
He carries the kitchen table out
to the sun where we watch him
toast Mummy. Their heart-red Chianti
winks in glasses. He teaches us
to kiss slurped spaghetti and think
of The Lady & the Tramp, never
the fighting in Salerno.
A version of this poem was published in Pod, Fat Damsel in 2016
No stablisers today
Gravel sharp grey crunching
ground slopes down acid
dandlelions crowd the edges
don’t go there don’t
stay on the smooth path
fast too fast
but Daddy says I must
or I’ll fall
Wheels whirr whizz
My buckled sandals pump
faster round the pedals.
Daddy runs alongside laughing and
calling, ‘ You’re doing great.
Straighten up. Now!’
His tight hand at the saddle’s back
keeps me steady.
Sun belts down burns freckles on neck
grubby hands slip slide on chrome
I can’t do this too fast I can’t
Near path’s end I rush
forward past the broken fence
the rough brick wall.
My curls bounce gingham dress whips legs.
I glance round to ask
Daddy what to do
but he’s not there.
from the top of the lane.
A version of this poem was published on Silver Birches site 2016
Published by The Scottish Book Trust in their collection ‘ Treasures’ in 2013
Finola Scott’s poems and short stories are widely published in anthologies and magazines including The Ofi Press, Raum, Algebra of Owls,The Lake, Poets’ Republic. She is pleased to be mentored on the Clydebuilt Scheme by Liz Lochead. A performance poet, she is proud to be a slam-winning granny. Her roles as daughter, teacher, wife, mother and grandmother are important sources for her writing. She is involved in the political, with especial reference to women’s place in society.