1933
Babushka kept a pig in the bathtub
while the Red Army raided barns
and larders enforcing Holodomor.
Out on the Kiev streets stick bodies
staggered, bloated and staining
snowdrifts like squashed bluebottles.
The children named the pig Nina
against their mother’s warnings.
Come slaughter day they waited
on the balcony with scarves tight
round their ears but the screams
rang loud and their tears froze.
1974
The British three day week; fish, chips
by candlelight. I strutted my hot pants
to Bowie and Bolan on Pirate Radio;
sniggered when Papa built secret shelves
inside the chimney breast to hide tins
of flour, sugar, rice, pasta and preserves.
Babushka, me and Mama chopped
and shredded cabbage, carrots, onions
like swathes of virgin lace spilling
over the yellow table, pickled in old
sweetie jars with faded labels. The blue
room soured with the stink of vinegar.
2020
The year of Covid 19; I empty bookcases,
arrange tins of soup, sweetcorn and tuna.
Lockdown. The silent sky tumbles
sapphire and stags browse my garden.
Their antlers spark a murder
of crows spooling from the willows.
When the amber light fades to dusk
ghosts come knocking at my door.
I look out at a deserted street, counting
down every wavering heart
beat. In the still mountain night
I hear the echo of Babushka cheering.
