A boy from playing ran,
His hunger hurrying him.
Root reaching for his foot,
He fell.
Breathless he lay sprawled,
The turf had hit him hard.
Deep into the dirt he sank,
Teeth grinding sand.
Coarse meal, or flour,
His mother baking bread,
Wooden caraway, he swallowed
Damp with salt for seasoning.
He wiped his hands,
The clay a clinging mess
On his mother’s fingers,
Kneading bread dough.
He slowly stood
And musing walked,
Skip in his step,
His hunger stilled.
© jsmorgane (March 2010)