BREAD-LINES
Grain re-sown from
Shell-scarred fields
Processed in familiar form
Unending rows of
White Sliced
Stretching in uniformity
On long trestle tables
Then neatly cut
Into dry flat squares
Which rasp the tongue
Thirsting for life
Some might want
Something 'classier'
More consistent
To dwell on
As they turn it round
In their mouths
Wholewheat granary
Baguette, ciabatta, pita
The moonlike wafer
Discreet western nod
To unleavened bread
Deemed at once
Too literal
and too exotic
Is most practical
In terms of crumbs
But there should be crumbs
Under the table
And on it, fragments
Of this basic
Everyday food
Which, shared, becomes
More than enough
To feed the world’s need a
And restore its damaged soul
And fine wine should be poured
In the place of welcome
Where survival
and celebration meet
Mud at the wall 