Our Daily Poem
I forget, Langland,
Was it just a crust of bread
Which you would grant to mark us sated?
Or does your grace encompass all a slice?
Ah, but what manner of crust -
Therein lies the rub
For I would ask you grant me:
A rich crust, brown and golden,
Hand-shorn from its loaf
Torn like an animal's skin
Still yielding much flesh
A crust still warm, with nuts and seeds,
That would be a crust indeed.
But sir I ask you spare me
The pale limp crust of a modern bread
Lying there sadly on a pale plastic plate
Like a wilted leek.
That would be a spineless heft of bread
Of no use for wine-dipping
And surely you would spare us that -
Such bloodless, cowards' fare.
Was it just a crust of bread
Which you would grant to mark us sated?
Or does your grace encompass all a slice?
Ah, but what manner of crust -
Therein lies the rub
For I would ask you grant me:
A rich crust, brown and golden,
Hand-shorn from its loaf
Torn like an animal's skin
Still yielding much flesh
A crust still warm, with nuts and seeds,
That would be a crust indeed.
But sir I ask you spare me
The pale limp crust of a modern bread
Lying there sadly on a pale plastic plate
Like a wilted leek.
That would be a spineless heft of bread
Of no use for wine-dipping
And surely you would spare us that -
Such bloodless, cowards' fare.