Dad dilly-dallies, consummates the garage,

and Mum shilly-shallies inside sieved clouds

 

while Son self-raises, pulls massive wheelies,

as weeds gather along snapdragon alleys. On Sundays

 

Dad fathoms Mum’s new-fangled gizmo

and Mum levels Dad’s spirit, holds the pencil

 

while Son checks out nobody going down

the slide, sees a see-saw horizontal. On Sundays

 

Dad blows a gasket, regrets screw plugs and Mum

slides a spatula underneath, laments margarine. Come evening

 

Dad swaps D.I.Y. for I.P.A. and Mum folds in tablespoons

of powder; both get pally pally. On Sundays they forget

 

to prepare Mondays and by Marmite, Songs of Praise

finally over (thank God), there’s little to show except crumbs

 

of a half-risen sponge, two hammered dovetail joints

and the extra surface for balancing very light objects.