Delia.

Her hands were pale
pouring sugar into flour
and stirring, sternly
she gauged measurements
with her pale hands.

She tied the apron
around her waist
and teased out
the ribbon with
loving fingers, the
icing from the bag
fell forwards

quite pink.

She wiped frosting
from her lips and
shouted, I'm not
to lick the bowl
am I missy?
I'm not to even
be in the kitchen
whilst she's baking

hot, that tray
needs cooling.

She is sweet
enough, sweeter
than sweet is.