THE KITCHEN

Broad planks laid on the raw clay
Composed the floor. Some had cupped
At edges, others at ends, so one made
A higgledy-piggledy journey from stove
To table. The butter-churn walked
The jigging timbers, and I passed
And repassed the cynosure of the room:
Herself seated shelling aprons of peas.
Ah, that trundling jar scudding spray
From motive dasher propelling yellow
Gold in spits and jots and tittles, frog-
Eggs of savoury oil gathering slowly
Into a summer island. She waved to me,
Knowing that if I went, I would come again.