My Mother at the table,
aproned and absorbed,
rhythm in the stirring,
the spreading, kneading –
collaboration with God
in the kitchen
Myself, chin-high to the altar,
watching the ritual bake,
flour-sprayed and patient;
the rolling, the turning –
conspiracy of comrades
in complicity
We two, in the evening,
sharing ceremonial,
the secrets of knowing,
the turned up sleeves,
the white gloves of
floured hands
Bounty of baking
in the kitchen
and secrets to bury
in the sands of the sea
at low water mark.