When I was younger the smell
Of wormwood meant we were at Brock’s house
Not “Mrs Brockwell”
As we might have been taught to say
Just Brock
The smell of wormwood was quickly overtaken by the smell
Of goats she milked by hand
Sometimes while we were watching
She had white hair and a red face
The goats had white hair and pink teats
These are the things you notice
If not the crimson flowers of the wormwood
Until today