Home-made Bread
Threshed, ground, bagged, its parts wait
nurture yeast into slow bubbles, creamy promise
strong, honest flour meets, envelops, pauses
ready to concede, to swell, stretch and smooth
ease proud bounty onto the board, watch
my mother’s hands push and pull, quiet rhythm
flour, flirt, shape, dimple the friendly dough
nestle it snug in burgeoning transformation
fierce heat flourishes broad, high, firm
tests, teases, knows when best to release
grows colour, whispers cues
crusty taps sound the chemistry
soak up dark gravy, smear with red jam
dunk in hot milk, sprinkle with brown sugar
pile with steaming beans
smear with guacamole, toast under runny eggs
bread to feed the five thousand, replace French cake
to punish served with water, not to have and also eat
that by which man cannot live alone
the staff of life, the life of the stuff
June Crane lives in Auckland, near to bush, harbour and family – and that suits her just fine. She walks and takes the ferry, so near to what the big city offers, yet so far. She is a reader, a baker, a talker, a reluctant gardener and, by profession, a mediator. She recently left full-time employment and suddenly a whole new world opened up – one she is yet to work out, but in which she wants to do more writing.
