Jane Clarke - Daily Bread lyrics

A white mist rises as she sifts a pound of flour into the worn, tin basin, wide as Lough Corrib. Blue veins lie like rivers on the map of her hands. She measures one teaspoon of bread soda, two teaspoons of salt. The plait at the nape of her neck: a fisherman's rope coiled at the quay. She scoops a hollow, pours a pint of bu*termilk, splashing and spluttering into the well. With the rhythm of a rower she kneads rough dough on the flour-dusted table, pushing it away, pulling it back, pushing it away again. With her wrist she flicks a lock, silver-grey frost in December, from her high cheek bones. Readying the bread for its hot harbour, she cuts a deep cross.