Take shin, kidney, an onion. Dice.
Cradle beef suet in your palm; shred
into flour with Daddy’s rabbit knife
lace-edged with rust. Add spring water.
Pullt goo into a ball.
Roll into a circle with a besom end.
Scoop the mas and press onto the dough.
Gather like a pack-up. Flute the rim
with a lick of ale to seal together.
Gi the dumplin’ skin a slap.
Turn onto a floured pudding cloth.
Tie a double knot. Slide into the cauldron
water thrilling over scavenged vonga,
one eye on the blip-blip-shudder till dusk.
Lift puddin’ arht b’t knot. Untie.
Ease the moon into an Imari bowl
haggled to a farthing from Black’s pot barrow
on Retford market. Cut into a clock.
Add cooking liquor and salt –
n’ then lass, eat wi carrots, tatties, swede.
mas: meat vonga: coal
How the mare watches you
watching without blinking,
the shire horse dragging her away
like a bundle of rags.
How the knackers placed the muzzle
behind the dark pool of her eye
a new thought blown
across her vision. The simplicity
of soil and water
and man splitting her shank
after three lads… no four
forged a pig’s squeal from a piebald.
And the shouting the shouting
as they had tossed the rope’s hoopla
over the royal sweep of her neck –
the peculiarity of those whinnies
the light’s attention
drawn to her dragon breath.
At a time of no shadows,
tufts of grass
down at the hawthorn’s groin
where the field unearthed a bog.