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