Inspired by Jeremy Noel-Tod’s recent post, I was reminded of a summer breakfast from childhood.

A summer breakfast

We never ate outside

but in my aunt's London garden,

grace of grey brick and clematis,

scented flowers all around,

we sat together my cousins, I,

my brother and a Chinese student

a guest of my uncle, the vicar.

The wasps jigged around us

diving to the lemon curd

or fruit fresh in its bowl.

We restrained ourselves quite well

when told we must sit still.

But she said, this is what we do.

With a calligrapher's deft skill

after a patient, focussed pause,

she held a wasp's head between

thumb and forefinger, and squeezed.

It wriggled briefly as I imagined

its astonishment.

She didn't wipe her fingers.