Yesterday <br />I was buttering bread for sandwiches <br />when I saw myself doing this <br />as I must have watched you all those years ago, <br />and forgotten ever since 'til now - <br />the butter firmly spread right to the edges of the crust, <br />pressed into the yielding bread, <br />and then the surplus gently scraped off on the knife <br /> <br />with all the careful but not mean economy <br />of a family which after your father's lungs <br />gave in to the cotton dust of the mill <br />where he worked so proudly for John Bright <br />the reformer (and there's a thought) <br />and your mother opened the front door of your home, <br />whose street-front window now became <br />a front-room shop for home-made cakes <br />so that the neighbours' help was charity with dignity and fair exchange; <br />the butter for the scones <br />you made before you left for morning school <br />came from out of a wooden tub <br />from the 'Italian warehouseman' or <br />the very first Co-op, down in Toad Lane... <br /> <br />Whether the tears poised at the corners of the eyes <br />were of sadness or of gratitude <br />for this so unexpected memory of the living dead <br />I couldn't say. But now, <br />gratitude. And, and, beauty.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0142-buttering-bread/
