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My Mothers Soup

Gemma Ambrose

Cold winters,

warmed by scorching soup,

Your homemade dough,

has my bowl soaking in its sponge,

The soft crust scratches my tongue,

Whilst the pillow melts in my mouth.

My only winters lust,

whilst the rain batters my window,

my cold dying body,

Warmed by your soup and bread.

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