These are not the days of old
And you do not fit the role
Wringing your hands, staying up till the AM
Waiting for your prodigal child to return
When others were counselling
Speaking measured, mature words of sense and responsibility
Into their unbaked dough children
Where were you?
These children are growing, the yeast is steady and controlled
Smooth, round and evenly inflated buns
Soon they will be baked a beautiful golden brown,
Cast and set for the rest of their days.
Your rain of anger and loud words,
Too little too late
At your confused and distant child
Their yeast is wild and they have risen too fast, unevenly,
and the smell of yeast will remain in the bread far too long
Then they are thrown, with their poorly developed yeast,
into the oven — too hot, unprepared
What a bread to emerge:
Burnt black and internally uncooked,
Hard and inedible.
What eyes with which to see the world
Because your eyes were closed, looking away
As someone else added the ingredients
Someone else kneaded your dough
Someone else lined the tins
Yet somehow it is still your bread.
And it is the baker’s fault when loaves burn.