Turf To Tummy

The turf fires glow reduced to ash A million years of bog history As I watched the glowing embers My mind took me back To a nearly forgotten time When the turf ruled the hearths And cranes swung pans over its heat Boiling the “spuds” and baking the bread Keeping habs hot to warm cold bums Now and then a new piece would be added To keep the fire burning brightly Ensuring our stew would be cooked to perfection And ready to fill our bellies at the table Spuds still in their jackets, slightly cracked Revealing the white floury potato inside Were tipped onto a plate on the table The steam rising with the earthy smell of spuds Freshly dug from the garden no more than an hour ago Onto our side plates to peel Then topped with butter to watch it melt And flow like lava from a volcano As dairy from animal meets vegetable Our taste buds are treated to A festival of flavours on a plate Simply superb