Bread Poem

a gift of the middle watch in Adoration

By father fancied, mother made,
she served me out like oven bread,
the unknown midwife who bore me
still moist and savory into life.
This loaf made food that fed the years
but its last crust will soon be spent.
It never has been mine to give.
It may be bruited when I’m gone
and mourners mutter in their cups
to say—he wasn’t half so bad,
he had his moments, a few wins—
but then the sexton with his spade
will slide it back where it came from,
this loaf full dry and spent of taste,
a breakfast never mine to boast,
a victory never mine to vow,
a meaning never mine to take.

I am cutting back to one poem a week, on Mondays, until I complete a book I am writing. About which I may have something to say when it is complete. Thanks for reading. WB