Bread

Today I made bread. As I smelled the first wafts of baking yeast, I remembered this poem I wrote about Newfoundland ages ago -


In this land of rocky coasts
and ill-traveled roads,
when you meet a stranger
on the highroad,
you invite him home
for a 'drop of tea.'

Strong tea in fragile cups,
served up with bread -
shining loaves,
coarse and nourishing
as the salt air.

Bread that rises by the kitchen stove,
clicking white dough
shaped by weathered fingers
with ancient assurance,
baked by the heat
of dawn-frosted logs,
to a golden crust
hollow to the tap,
spread scarlet with marsh berries.

Bread warm
against the sea
and wind
and being alone.