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Poem

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

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