My daughter is breaking bread.
Warm, crusty, the whole cottage fills with its scent.
Sunlight is streaming in from morning East. About happiness no more can be said.
My granddaughter is playing, breakfast cooking, no fasting now for Lent.
Leaving, I climb high up upon the Wolds’ gentle camber.
I look north twenty miles towards the grey smudge of North Sea.
A glint of sunlight on some sea distant wind farm, a ship sailing as if on land on the Humber.
Strips of receding farmland, yellow rape emerging and a sharp horizon as far as I can see.
And here before me on the lane’s verge are bright blue forget-me-nots sown wild.
Then I remember these words: I am the Bread of Life.
There is no service today, no incantation, but a joy fills me like a child.
All about me is bursting green swelling new spring life.
But it was not the countryside or baking bread that gives this joy as sublime as poetry.
It was the thought of the Bread you eat after which, with His promise, you are never hungry.