by Mary Bennett
I stand and watch
the man behind the long, black
hotplate. He pours perfect circles
of batter from his ladle,
each one identical,
round after round after round,
pale and smooth at first,
till little, pimply bubbles appear,
smattering of brown freckles,
the edges frill. He flicks them over
with his broad, flexible knife.
I smell their warm, yeasty smell.
They used to be wrapped in plain white paper,
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I like poetry because it creates pictures in my mind: it may take me to a beautiful landscape, create a mysterious atmosphere, or trigger a memory, , make me laugh or cry all in a few words.
I was inspired to write my poem . when waiting in our little oatcake shop one day, idly watching the dextrous movements of the man making oatcakes.
I submitted it because oatcakes and the traditional way they are made, have long been a feature of life in Stoke-on-Trent. – Mary