SONNET XXIII

The light that climbs from your feet to your hair,
the mantle enveloping your delicate form,
are not sea’s nacre, or frozen silver:
you are bread, bread, dear to the fire.

The grain built its silo around you, and rose,
increased by a golden age,
while its wheaten surge recreated your breasts,
my love was an ember labouring in earth.

Oh, bread of your forehead, your legs, and your mouth,
bread I consume, born each day with the light,
dear one, the bake-houses’ banner and sign:

the fire taught your blood its lessons,
you learnt sacredness from grain,
and your language, your perfume are bread.