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.