Bratwurst and schnitzel, Mum had some in her bag,
but I didn’t think about it then, halfway between
sleep and waking to the Bavarian (or was it
the Alpine?) scenery, misted mountain-
Oktoberfest grey outside the window. Morning,
but only just, passing through. Dim
light in our compartment, and this dream-like
somnambulant rhythm. Silver Lady,
it was number one now
and went well with traveling,
smooth along the rails, no juddering,
even when I only played it in my head,
wouldn’t think we were moving
at such high speeds…I liked David Soul
as a singer, but much preferred Starsky to Hutch…
Sweets under the seat! I could have some of those
if I could be bothered to reach –
but where was my transistor?
Last I remember I’d had my earphone in
for Fab 208’s top thirty and Elvis had dropped.
Way Down, it scared me, that line at the end
sung deep when everyone knew that Elvis was dead,
in his grave. Big, fat ponso,
Mum had scoffed, no pop for her,
only Strauss and Waltzing,
Blue Danube in the living room, holding on
to her invisible partner, Dad resting
his ulcerated leg. He never came with us
on holiday, never danced, not even before
they married… Kuss, kuss, bussi, bussi…
That man from last night was still there,
Mum yacking away in German,
and him, leaning over her now, pulling down
the blind on the carriage door,
Mum snapping it back up again.
Bussi meant kiss, I knew that now,
nothing to do with cats at all
like I’d thought when I was four, five at most –
and yuck! In Austria everyone kissed.
People were warm, Mum said, especially
in the Tirol. She thought it a good thing…
Up, down, up, down, roller blind, big fat ponso,
Mum talking faster and louder than ever,
and his face like Bagpuss in black and white,
before he came to life… Bagpuss, Bagpuss,
old fat furry cat puss… pawing
and carry on! Those films were so funny,
bussi bussi, karate chop… didn’t know
Mum could Kung-Fu fight, or that men could
yowl and howl quite like that… Ach,
wenn man längere Zeit kein Fleisch gesehen hat…
(when you haven’t seen meat for a while)
Bratwurst and schnitzel, I thought about it then.

By Carol Stewart – Galashiels, Selkirkshire, United Kingdom

About the Author

Carol Stewart is a mother and grandmother living in the Scottish Borders. Her poems have recently been featured in various print and online journals, including That (Literary Review), Gravitas, Coffin Bell, Change Seven, Atlas and Alice, Wingless Dreamer, and Scapegoat. She is currently working on a short story collection and her first two interlinked novels.

Feature Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko

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