The Secret Life of Sponge Cake - Alan Hill

 Mother could see our neighbour was
insane, when she played piano at the
Women’s Institute, could, would not
be stopped 
 
rocked three hundred planks of
village hall floor, each one
a tree once more, hormonal seed  
grown tall in power of boogie-woogie. 
 
Tea split: sponge cake discombobulated
 
Most of the time
her husband kept her in the attic, away
from doctors, hospitals, those
paid to care
 
Nobody did care.
 
Often, as I waited for the bus to school
a window opened; wood slapped brick
 
birds joined their wings, grass grew 
flowers sang hallelujahs under a wall of
chords, the
rhythm of life broke free
pressed on morning in dark black notes.



​
Alan Hill has been writing for many years in Botswana, the UK and Canada. H is always trying to hone his craft. His latest collection 'In the Blood' was published by Caitlin Press in 2022.