A Bowl of Shreddies

I am going to be submitting these pieces to a local Plymouth publication called Anthologia on the theme of 'Tradition', this first coming from a childhood tradition of going very early to an air show at the Kentish airport Biggin Hill and eating our breakfast in the car.

It’s 8.30am and I’m sitting in the open boot

Of my family’s white Volvo Estate

Clutching a blue picnic bowl of Shreddies

As I have done every year since I can remember;

My sister’s bowl is white,

She is shorter than me –

How long has it been since then?

We breakfast in Indian seclusion,

A bold patterned throw over the door,

Impatience for the coming day

Crowded in with the cool boxes and fold-up seats.

Soon, I know, the sky will become

The biggest stage I have ever seen –

My dad made sure of that by parking

As far from tall vans as he could,

Allowing for an unbroken swathe of blue

From horizon to zenith.

As I munch through my ever soggier Shreddies,

Memories of last year play out

In my mind’s eye:

A jet moving through the air

In imitation of a begging dog;

Star shapes in red, white, and blue

Fading into purple clouds;

A drawn-out thunderclap

Ripping the sky apart;

Biplanes stalling - falling

From precipitous heights.

Bowl empty, I am already salivating

For chilled chicken drumsticks and pork pies,

Wishing I could eat them on the roof

Closer to the display

In the big open sky.