Bend for the mixing bowl
patterned like our mothers’.
Fetch the wooden spoon
darkened by a thousand dhals.
Slide bees-work into water, add
yeast
and watch a muddy puddle
spring to life. Keep warm.
Wait. Wash hands, splash face, brush
teeth.
Add fragrant flour
gifted by the summer sun
and salt from the earth and sea.
Beat, beat, beat the batter
Til your arm says ‘no more’.
First rising. Slow movement, stretch,
balance.
Add more flour for a sticky,
glutinous gloop.
Push, fold, push, fold.
until the dough submits.
Place a damp towel on its swelling crown.
Second rising. Up the hill through
autumn leaves and mist.
Oil tins, light oven
form a trinity of loaves
smooth, round and sensuous
ready for the fire.
Third rising. Let thoughts arise.
Put the pieces in the kiln.
Set the timer, let the fire do its
work.
Meditate, dog curled tired at your
feet.
When the loaves sound like drums,
and smell of heaven,
turn out on a rack.
Cooling, cooling
waiting
waiting…
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