“God bless this bread <br />And God preserve <br />The breadwinner”, I murmur <br />Making the sign <br />Of the cross in the dough <br />Though I don’t believe <br />Any more in a personal god. <br /> <br />Yet still I say this prayer— <br />Say, twice a week <br />When I bake bread <br />In the way I was taught <br />By my grandmother long ago. <br />She learned the art <br />Of baking bread and this ritual <br />Prayer as a slip of a girl <br />From the lips of her Irish mother. <br /> <br />I see her there, my grandmother <br />Still young in her flowered dress, <br />sleeves rolled, she bustles in <br />And rakes the fire, puts on <br />More coal to heat the oven <br />Until it is just right. <br />Breadmaking then was an arcane art <br />Involving dampers, rods <br />Pulled in and out <br />Like organ stops. She played <br />Whole symphonies upon that <br />Kitchen range, while nowadays <br />I use dried packaged yeast <br />And turn the gas to number eight. <br /> <br />But yet I do perform, indeed, <br />Could not omit, this magic rite, <br />This ritual prayer of invocation <br />And every time there comes to mind <br />A winding line going back in time <br />Of mothers and their dark-haired daughters, <br />Beautiful soft-voiced Irish women <br />Solemnly blessing the sacred bread.<br /><br />Pete Crowther<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/god-bless-this-bread/
