40 honey jars
The hands that tied this string I’m trying to loose
have been at rest these seven years and more.
The tag is in the same well-rounded script
she learned at school. The box’s size and shape
show how the empty jars will be inside:
a double layer of five by four, each one
scoured clean, shop label soaked off,
metal lid screwed down.
She’d saved them still and stored them so
long after she had need of a cupboardful of jam,
yet knowing well the old receipts
she’d copied from her mother’s hand
would serve another generation
boiling surplus fruit with sugar
and a butter knob.
I wish she hadn’t tied the knot so tight.