A crescent smudge of flour
marks your cheek.
Sweet bright dust of summer’s baking hour
gives a clue of morning loaves,
and makes a promise of midday tea.
The snowdrift kitchen
billows white with flocks of clouds
about your feet. I like your hair like this:
tied back in messy bun with curls awry,
neatness gone by batches two and three.
I boil some water, arrange the cups.
You let the workhorse oven heave a sigh.
Jody Porter is Poetry Editor for the Morning Star. He blogs here and tweets here.