Morning Song, from Ariel, a collection of poems by Sylvia Plath, published posthumously in 1965

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

A passable insight into this work may be found here. LJ

La ratatouille provençale

I love this dish, but only when it is prepared perfectly, for botched approximations are invariably grotesque parodies and an offence to the palate. I have never eaten a good one outside France and I have yet to be served a good one in a restaurant. The best I have ever had was with a wonderful family who welcomed me when I was hitch-hiking as a student. They had fought with the resistance in the mountains near Grenoble during the war and I was greatly privileged to be shown the location of their operations and to join them at the ceremony commemorating the massacre at the Massif du Vercors. They were amongst friends there and the poignancy of the enduring solidarity between them was palpable. LJ

“L’art de préparer une vraie ratatouille provençale” : http://madame.lefigaro.fr/cuisine/lart-de-preparer-une-vraie-ratatouille-provencale-090818-150053