THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2016

Andrew Sclater

HER PORRIDGE

She insisted on how the porridge should be
made from pinhead oatmeal only
milled on the banks of the River Spey
scooped from the sack at the end of the day
and steeped overnight to soften the grit
fitting shatter together bit by bit
until the pan heaved and blew and spat.
But when it was ready that wasn’t just that
and she ladled it out like dressing a wound
in that swollen place that was nobody’s fault
through the trodden glen where a pibroch crooned
and she never took sugar she only took salt.

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