So good it had to be shared

John Keats Eats His Porridge

It was hot enough to blister
The red paint of his mouth.
But if he let it lie there, glistening,
then clipped segments from the circumference,
it slid down like a soggy bobsleigh.

Grey as November, united as the kingdom,
but the longer he stared into that dish of porridge
the more clearly he traced
under the molten sugar
the outline of each flake of oatmeal.

When milk made its slow blue-tinted leap from jug to bowl
the porridge became an island.
John's spoon vibrated in his hand.
The island became a planet.
He made continents, he made seas.

This is strange porridge.
Eat it all up.

By Adrian Mitchell