A nettle soaked could set a curd,
And burrs could wrap the butter pack.
A copper pan could spoil the taste.
For sixty years she’d made these notes.
The life within, the voice without,
The cream and structure, rind and heart,
The village and its changeless ways:
For sixty years she rose above.
The young she helped and coaxed on through
The mysteries, rituals, places, times –
Between the ageing racks and shelves –
For sixty years, traversed the gaps.
Her hands are supple, soft and strong:
They play her secrets like a song.