My cauldron will brew for a year and a day
Which is to say, forever.
No child slave labour,
No relentless using of the elderly
Never permitted to retire to ease.
Mine is not that sort of cauldron.
My children will eat from it,
The dark ones and the fair,
The nimble of mind, foot or finger,
And those slower in their ways.
All are beautiful to me and all shall be fed.
Some will say “must we have peas again?”
And “Mine’s got lumpy bits in it”
And “I don’t like it.”
They will eat the sweet and the sour,
The smooth, the chewy.
What comes from my cauldron is life.
None will have blinding flashes
Or burning heads
But I will feed them my potions,
Day by day.
Feed them with love, soil food, soul food.
Earth made, and nurturing.
I will answer what hunger I can.
This cauldron does not crack, or poison.
It offers everyday gifts.
Inspiration you can live with,
Ladled steaming into many bowls.