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.

                          <>

                         For
   The Alternative Bread Company.

                         By
              Ryan O'Leary.