Blue veins stood out like tracks
On Granny’s wrinkled hands
How we loved the aroma
Of her baking
She would measure the ingredients
Cup full by cup full
Then before it was ready for the oven
She would take the knife
Cutting a deep cross into the loaf.
We would stand close by
Waiting for our chance to prod the loaf
Then and only then
Would we get our treat.
A big enamel mug of fresh lumpy buttermilk.
That will put hairs on your chest she would tell us
But it never did
My sister was well glad of that;
(c) Chris Black 2017.