Free-range celebration

This morning,
with the clucking of our speckled hen
proclaiming triumph,
my anticipation leaps.

There’ll be an egg
cloaked in an umber shell
freckled with temptation.
Its perfect form,
designed for fragile strength,
will nestle in the straw – then,
still warm from the laying,
will sit comfortably in my hand.

I’ve been planning for this egg
I’ve not yet seen.
I’ll lower it gently into boiling water
for exactly five minutes.
When I place it in an eggcup
I will crack it with a spoon,
around the rim.

I know what I will see,
how it will be,
inside.

I’ll lift a lid
on blue-white, opaque whiteness
and within
will be a richly silken yolk
the colour of the Tuscan sun
to drip from buttered soldiers
dipped in:
coating my home-made bread,
spilling over the shell,
dribbling down my chin.

It will be like
fresh buttercup cream in spring.