Cara, I wrote this yesterday but forgot to send it but I've just seen your
comments and thought I'd pop in into the post now because I want you to know
how the piece came across to me.
bwc

I think this is lovely, Cara.  It paints such a clear, tender picture and I
love the optimism despite the obvious poverty.  The poem feels to me as
though it's set in a different era - probably pre second World War - because
of the ominous undertones of 'and keep out of t'ranks'.
I can't work out why the layout's as it is, which is odd because your
layouts usually work exceptionally well for me.
bw
c

> --
>              DOES HE LIKE BUTTER?
>
>
>
>     She breakfasts   on bread and dripping:
>     he sucks,   a lordling,   at her breasts.
>     Then helter-skelter   they go down the hill
>     into the greyness    of St John o'Vale.
>
>     Beside the font   the vicar's glasses glint:
>     she twists a curl,   tweaks the darned
> hand-me-down
>     not made to cover her child's opulent limbs:
>     he cries out   at the coolness of the splash.
>
>     They feast   in the meadow   on cider and cake
>     girls,   women from village,   from family,
>     some tired old men.   Else and the young ones
>     blow clocks from dandelions,   weave daisy chains,
>
>     garland her son.   She seizes a buttercup
>     makes play under his chin: ' 'E's going to be
> rich'
>
>     she says
>
>     'and keep out of t'ranks'.
>
>                            cara, August 01
>
>
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