I can remember my grandmother
taking eggs from under a hen
and on the way back, squirting
milk from the udder cow.
Srish srash, srish srash into
a galvanised bucket.
Out on the sill, souring lactose
looked like a white brain in
preserving fluid and together
with the chickens yolk, took on
the same colour, as the house
of yellowed ochre.
The mixing bowl resembled a
world war one soldiers helmet,
with near escapes of hen pecked
enamel and skirmishes with
under fed dogs.
Hands hauled sifted flour in
memorised cup-holds,
salt, a pinch in haste,
a curse removed,
a shoulder blessed.
Fire, of turf, which smoke
the walls and time caressed.
Soda rising, raisins bursting,
window cooling, dough to crust.