Porridge

The daily porridge simmered in the pot That time I spent a fortnight with my uncle And it was ladled out, shared round the table My cousins sat, six hearty stepping stones Happy to welcome waifs into their circle The farmhouse was alive with things to like Two working collies sprawled beside the fire Sweet honey from the hive oozed from a comb The wax upon the plate lay whole, entire Peats crumbled in the grate. Six pairs of boots Sat drying, damp with mud from field and byre An now I pour my porridge from a bag Into a bowl, stir boiling water there Three stirs. It thickens, sustenance of sorts No peats. No boots. A solitary chair.