Proustian Bread

I don’t know that much about Proust,

But I know tastes bring home to roost

Memories that will sit and take root,

Transport you, give a nostalgic boost.

At the weekend I made my first loaf,

After months of yeast procrastination.

Eating slices opened up pictures

And scenes in my imagination -

Bread made by my mother 

With salad in summer, 

That bread still warm from the roast.

Soup filled up with croutons,

Morning breakfasts in Bruton,

At my Aunt’s - all kinds of toast.

Just a taste or two

And away my mind flew

To pastures of plenty and past.

Just a taste or two

And away my mind flew

To remembrances perfectly cast.

Of Marcel I don’t know a great tot,

But I know about hiding, of memory’s lot:

To wait until a trigger is wrought,

And mind novels are written in a shot.