My Mother told me when I was a child that I should never put bread on the fire as doing so would feed Satan. I was never convinced but I obeyed my Mother's directive. As I got older it just seemed a waste to burn bread. The memory of her injunction prompted this.
“Never, ever, put bread on the fire.”
My mother was adamant about this
“Not even two day old stale crusts
because you’re feeding the Devil.”
In winter she would burn vegetable peelings
they would smoulder on the coals
deprive the room of heat.
I used to wonder about the menu in hell
whether Satan longed for a soft white balm cake
and took his wrath out on the nearest food critic.
I wrote it quickly, the ending about the food critic just appeared. By the way a Balm Cake is a soft white roll from the north-west of England. It's a regional delight. Here's a little poem I've been reflecting on for a while.
early morning empty room
the sound of one door opening
will ripple this silence
appreciate the echo
of each footfall
and the day begins with laughter
It began with the title on Monday at work. I arrived in the rehearsal space first and noted the echo. It is a small observation/memory. I think it will go no further than this post.
I'm going through a Murray Head phase again. He's just released a live album and it set me listening to his back catalogue. Here's a live recording.
Here's the original.
Until next time.
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