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
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