Sourdough Starter

I have been writing poetry every day and here is a wee ditty from today:

Poem by Irene Watson

It grows in the dark

inside the old kitchen cupboard.

You divide it, every night,

keep half and throw half away,

just before midnight,

when the house sleeps.

You feed it gently,

more flour and water

and in the morning

we ask,

How’s Steve?

Some mornings he is cool

and he has grown well.

But then, there are the mornings

when you are worried.

He is less aired, grown less.

Do you think he is cold? You ask me.

Should I put him in a warmer place?

I am not sure.

So then, as you sit

in the old family armchair

you look for advice online

and that small frown appears

between your eyebrows

as you try and find the answer,

like you do,

like I do.