Dough

In the blue-striped china bowl
this waxy lump of whitish-grey,
is busy.

It works its sour magic
like a seething midden heap,
sweaty, pungent. Rising, rising.

Soon a strange uncratered planet
looms above the bowl’s blue rim.

Gill McEvoy

If you have any comments on this poem, Gill McEvoy would be pleased to hear from you.