by Ole Carsten   Apr 5, 2014


To feel the clean water,
while sensing the flour,
mixed whit the smell of yeast,
making a feast in my nostrils.

Setting the wood at fire,
it is a emotional moment,
to feel the heat from the Owen,
sitting and watching you.

The hand is swirling the pot,
it is not unlike massage,
the fingers is squeezing the grain,
turning a few ingredients to dough.

A special fragrance from the dough,
while it is rising in the pan,
a happy rich senseless moment,
when the first smell of bread comes.

It is pure poetry,
to sit a wait for the harvest,
the bacon is roasted,
all is ready for the first bite..


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Latest Comments

  • 4 years ago

    by Biancas Veil

    Wow I really feel like some homemade fresh bread still warm from the oven now well written

  • 4 years ago

    by Dagmar Wilson

    Nice write Ole. It's been a long time and I am glad to read another poem of yours