They dont make love
so she makes bread
spends long nights sifting,
gently placing peaks in her silent landscape.
She dozes lightly, till its time
to rise from the cool sheets
and share the doughs warmth.
Kneading the swelling mass
she soothes and shapes,
folds and forms:
Buxom cottage loaves;
petit pain the tops slit, just so;
rustic ciabatta, starred with olives,
and fleshy baguettes.
She brushes his arm with soft hands,
returns his smile,
as she watches him break bread.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Carole Houlston would be
pleased to hear from you.