Winning bread 

sounds somehow romantic.
Earning the crusts
a consummation wished
upon the working class.
Dad took pride
in fulfilling the role.
But not so proud as
wear his cap indoors.
Nor speak in aught but
reverence of my Ma.

He gave her every penny
on any given Friday.
And smiled; replete
when bending down,
so she might kiss his cheek.

The memory sustains me. 

That Mum and Dad
who won our bread
begrudge us not one crumb.
But lie at peace
and know their job is done.










© franciman 2023
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Oh, wow! That is moving, my friend. Such a lovely, honest relationship to have as a memory. Such a lovely, honest poem. Thank you for sharing it. Giving people pleasure from reading your work, enlarges you and them, doesn’t it.


This brought back so many memories of my own childhood; sadly, not as sweet as these; and it so captures that time, that generation; and I would say we were privileged to have ben related to it; and my dad did the same with his wage packet – keeping just enough for tobacco and the odd pint. Thanks franciman, a perfect piece for me.


What a moving poem that is your trademark for me. I am never disappointed, ever. I am sure they would be so proud of you.

My mother told me she never ever saw an unopened wage packet and she held that against him long after he hit the soil. Theirs was not a loving relationship and looking back I feel such pity for two people who simply married the wrong person. A bit like I did two decades later. This is tender and memorable.
Alison x

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