My sister always asked to eat them
on the back step. As we balanced
our brown Hornsea plates on our knees,
she would peel apart the home-baked bread,
tweezer out the filling
between disgusted fingers
and throw it into the garden
of the derelict house next door.
Flesh-pink slices sailed through the air
into the undergrowth of nettles
and docks. Later in the year
small flowers would bloom:
London Pride. Their delicate tint
matched the meaty shades.
I thought they took their colour
from that secret compost.
A redemption of sorts.
Penny Blackburn's poetry has featured in many journals and anthologies and she was the winner of Poetry Tyne 2023. She runs a spoken word night in Tynemouth and has released her debut collection with Yaffle Press, Gaps Made of Static.