Thick golden sun falls to the earth Seeps into the ground and gives birth Under my hearth to warmth bespoke There is no need to give the fire a poke Whispering smoke carries forth As I stir the noonday’s por’dge The scent, not of oat, but of lentils be More carrots and seeds ‘side the mantelpiece Turmeric and spice float through the house A closed window, tight, keeps the chill out Winter and his ilk are not yet to gloat Take a spoonful, feel the warmth coat the throat Liquid gold slides down and hugs the chest Inside the heart blooms a sun for noonday's rest