Porridge
Putters softly in the pot like a horse
Trotting down the island in the dawn.
Pan grates at the hob, shoe to road, as we wait.
And round the bleary eye a sleep of oat-film dries.
Rims of the barrow grind, their spokes mill,
Round and round, as we turn.
Light shines bright as grain in the cold air.
Ring of hooves now and husks of late stars.
The sea ripens, shoal upon shoal for harvest,
And we’re off to a good start, memory lined again.
Page(s) 65
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