Porridge Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The daily porridge simmered in the pot
That time I spent a fortnight with my uncle
And it was ladled out, shared round the table

My cousins sat, six hearty stepping stones
Happy to welcome waifs into their circle

The farmhouse was alive with things to like
Two working collies sprawled beside the fire
Sweet honey from the hive oozed from a comb
The wax upon the plate lay whole, entire
Peats crumbled in the grate. Six pairs of boots
Sat drying, damp with mud from field and byre

An now I pour my porridge from a bag
Into a bowl, stir boiling water there
Three stirs. It thickens, sustenance of sorts
No peats. No boots. A solitary chair.