Deliver me from cakes who could do
with pulling themselves together –
torte, glossy, but with anxious leanings;
pavlova, whimsical and brittle.
Give me at teatime a Victoria,
smugly glorious on its doily,
a stoical date and walnut,
a valiant take-me- as-you-find me bun.
Let a lemon drizzle save me
from the melancholy of éclairs,
savarin’s wild despair, the quiet disdain
of violet macaroons.
O cakes of England,
rise and comfort me.