Silent eating

Do you remember Barrow hill, with church
of pitted stone, where sleepers rest until
an angel blows dreams away. Once we walked
around flowers of plastic, past stone lies,
and out a wooden gate, to wander down
past fields in flood and ash now winter bare,
to this cottage of turf and broken stone,
with thick yew hedge to beat back wind and rain

You watched as inside, upstairs, Sunday best
was tissue shrouded for its weekly tomb
as rain pit-patted on the window glass.
Finished, she sat on the bed’s edge and wept.
with bible cradled in arms long empty.
Silence comforted until sunlight peace
warmed smiles and kisses for the holy book.
Rising, with apron tight and hair commanded,
she shelves truth for love  of both goat or sheep.

I waited downstairs by scrubbed pine table,
laden with dishes of yellow margarine,
and jam labelled red with pillow bread
to make a wish:

 for white linen, a dish of  butter sun, 
     blackberry jam scenting of summer warmth
     and oven bread too warm still for slicing.

We left a kettle’s whistle summon down
to feast of tea and sandwich now eaten
in contentment that God rests as crows caw outside.


O banquet when home from the pub

knobbled dimpled
with skin olive brown

stripped white
sliced right
chop, chopped for chips

soft moist
like love remembered
as I dry to fry

sizzle, spit
in a flat black pan

golden mother warm
they are raised
sprinkled salt tasty

on chunky white bread
without care for old age