She said

You could do a poem about the snails 

And meant the painted trails

Around the town

My mind ran down 

Fail

Hale

Male

Well met!

They let

Artists paint

And pattern

Snail blanks

And someone ranks

Their shell design

Good, bad, just fine!

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There were those moments

pressed

against a Cornish rock

                in beach blackness

                with the shush of the rippling waves

                nearby in the night

lying

in a Sussex garden

                with the hot sun

                dappling our backs

parked

on a Ditchling hill

                with town lights

                spread below

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Those huge white flakes of fish

And the mashed potato dish

Have stayed in my memory

For sixty years

I remember the potato, creamy soft

Had a seasoned, peppery waft

And the choice of sauces:

Egg or parsley

It must have been a whole side of cod

I remember my grandfather like a god

Slowly stood to serve the fish

Separating the flakes

The etched glass...

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