Three Poems

Emily it was, in Howarth parsonage,
Who made the bread. If you have kneaded dough
You'll know that you have got a living thing
Under your hands - and it fights back, fights back.
So, with firm fingers,
She squeezed the tumid viscous lumpish mass,
Infusing in it such suppressed emotions,
And so much pent up rage, until she pushed it
Into the oven. Resurrected
As bread, it was, I fancy, no less wholesome
For all that passion consubstantial with it.

A few years back, and southward,
In another parsonage, Cassandra Austen
Used to make mead, a good Hampshire tradition.
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