The Irish breakfast

Sausages stretching and spluttering,
Simmering as they brown,
Wafts of white bread toasting,
The wax tablecloth’s taken down,
Place settings, china, steel cutlery,
Cups, glasses, jugs for juice coffee and tea.

Eggs cracked on the counter,
Just in time for the melee,
Napkins for the spills,
A kettle shooting out steam,
Plates warmed in the oven,
A meal fit for a team.

“I must time it all right”,
says himself to the mammy,
Tall and aproned at the oven like an busy boulder,
Table cloth from Andy boyds draped just on his shoulder,

The Precision of the sauces,
Lined up like soldiers.
All sticky brown, yellow and red,
White, brown or multigrain bread?
Pudding are you white or black?
Remember Mam’s rashers have that knack.
There may be farls and maybe the queens beans,

Flowery tea cosy,
Burnt on the right from Davey’s fag,
Like a protective dome,
Or an upturned beach bag.

It’s a late but early feast,
And there’s news on the telly,
Guest coats hang in the hall,
To stop them from getting smelly.

Overlooking it all,
An oil painting of a perturbed peacock,
That no one ever knew,
Looks down at the table,
Just to the right of the small loo.

A log burning fire,
Cat with a half sausage in her paw.
Her kittens roam,
Lucky to get a scrap,
As the collie bounds the lawn,
Building an appetite with each lap.

Sunny side up, sunny side down, scrambled or posh poached,
Some chives thrown into the scramble mix,
Fuzzy radio crackling somewhere between 95 and 96.
For not miss a thing.
Hallway phone ignored as it continues to incessantly ring.

Shoulder to shoulder,
Wooden chairs assemble and screech side by side,
The round table like an altar,
Where no food can hide.

It begins,
The snatches for the bread,
Some opting for the toast,
Each spying their slice,
The white is loved most.

Everyone disowns and avoids the poor heel,
Left lonely and destined for the crows afternoon steal.

Bring on the laughter and ‘the chats’,
As the ketchup forensics decorate plates and table mats.

The dripping spout of the teapot,
Tea cosy on its side,
Lies discarded,
With literally has nothing to hide.

The water from the spout forms crystals in the sugar bowl.
The pot is then lifted,
To make even more tea,
2 more come to the back door and are told there is plenty,
Probably cos Marto has brought some coal,

An irish breakfast feeds the belly,
But most of all the soul.