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