The Butter in the bog
The bog butter is unearthed as a kind of calcified foam,
a spume caught in the mouth of an alder pot, pulled out
of the peat to be put on display; ancient butter flavoured
with wild garlic which could well be good enough to eat
below the crust, more than half a millennium on from it's churning
although who would try? It has been dormant in accidental
hibernation beneath the bog, stored for a feast and forgotten,
it’s crafter sinking hole after hole into the turf trying to seek it out
once more until giving up and giving in to the oaten bread
without the sweet spread of coagulated cream.
It is a tankard slid across the polished bar and left to settle,
the froth receding from the rim but risen yet in soft domes.
It is the barkish rind of bracket fungus, swollen on the trunk and spongy
to the touch, it is the grass, the cow, the cream, the churn, the alder urn,the gentle storing in the gentle earth, cooled and clean and lost.