Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

It’s that dead hour of the night
when the blazing burners to the vast ovens,
turned low, hum solemn psalms as the bakers
go outside to smoke. Dazed, half-awake
they shuffle into the car park like cakes
on a conveyer belt. Some of the workers gaze
at the tenements where their children and parents

doze in the warm caramelised air. A stark moon
shines over Parkhead. ‘Look it’s made of butter,
dough, sugar and salt!’ The men joke as they make
small red moons glow in their mouths. They baptise
each other with wreaths of smoke. Some of the bakers
swallow little white moons, poppers, keep me
awake gob-smackers. Some of the women,

turning their sallow faces to the moon,
are reminded of the millionth sponge cake
they will have baked and how that sickly
scent of baking never quite washes
from their skin or hair as they muddle
through life working with debt, dealing with asbos
and feeding their children just the right

addictive mix of sugar and salt. An owl hoots
from some hidden place, before the clock
strikes three to summon the bakers back in.
Each contented hoot is followed by comments
from the crowd. ‘All this must have been woodland
long ago. How has it survived? The factory mice!
Sugar and spice and all things nice!’

The girl barely turned seventeen has a bun
in the oven. She has the choice between
living with secrets and scars or her love
and hate for ginger bread men and life on the dole
as a single mum. Broken, she knew nothing would ever
be the same again. She knew that not all the workers
or family or friends could ever put her together again.