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© Rachel Green August 2025
This dark corner near my parent's Aga
where light from open door and window fade
dust from coal and coke, where dog hairs gather
next to the cupboard where bread was laid,
a bucket, loosely draped with cheesecloth top
to keep the ever-present flies at bay
bubbles soft with dandelion and hop
in vigorous ferment, 'ere bottling day.
At seven years, and guided by my mother's voice
in Eucharist of water into wine
the kitchen waste of garden scraps of choice
a tradition handed from her gran'mama to mine.
It served me well, these last fifty years or more
to drink a toast to she whom nurture bore.
© Rachel Green August 2025
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