I weigh flour and sieve it, like snow falling-
a few select seconds of harmless dust
to decorate these stopped streets
with isolated sirens that stir more in body
than the contents of this bowl.
I reach for those tiny flakes that offer rise
before pouring over the honey-
a smooth sweetness to cut the bitterness
of all that cannot be held in isolation.
Oil comes next, with the water,
once called incompatible
but when all else is distanced
other things find ways to dance.
While it boosts by the window
in a bowl of sunshine,
we take a slow stroll along small paths
that meander through muck and memory.
Mum points to a rickety door
she once knocked on to buy milk,
only a jug left now in an upper window
holding moments that will evaporate.
We pass fields and wonder
that is leek and what is weed
and in our minds make lists
of all that still grows in open pasture
while aisles look empty indoors.
Back home we sit, after bread is baked,
finding comfort in its crisp corners
as butter melts over this uncertain heat
and we remember yesterday,
when life was as simple
as a slice of bread with butter running.


All words and photographs and bread by Damien B. Donnelly (bread recipe from The Happy Pear)

Inspired by a #PoetryPrompt on Twitter from the #PoetInResidence Catherine Anne

Cullen at @PoetryIreland 


11 thoughts on “OTHER WAYS TO DANCE

      1. Jane Dougherty

        It has such a distinctive smell. In my next house I am going to have an oven and if I have to have stone-ground flour flown in from a civilised region, I will.

    1. deuxiemepeau

      Well her sister said the other day that mum will be the fittest of them all by the time this is all over 🤭
      Every other day we take a walk or go out and work in the garden
      Precious time
      Hope you are all okay my dear ☘️💚☘️💚🌟

      1. deuxiemepeau

        I told her about the hug, we are flat mates in the cottage but no hugs right now. There’ll be a time when we are smothering each other in hugs, and hopefully not too long from now 🤞🤗

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