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 Crying need and Restore its damaged soul And fine wine should be poured In the place where survival And celebration meet
Mud at the wall 