FRIED EGGS

FRIED EGGS

The ham was on the table
Waiting to be sliced
Mashed turnip and potatoes
Fried onions, browned and diced.
There were Mum's hot-crossed buns
She always made at Easter
And how she'd smile as we named each one
"Cotton", "Tail" and "Peter."
I sat down to hear the blessing
On my stool with just three legs
When all at once in unison
We said "Where's the eggs?"
My mother's face turned beet red
As she began to grin
She'd been too busy with the ham
To send us down to the pen.
We hurried down to get some eggs
From the hen house nests
And as she fried them in a pan
We waited for the best.
What's ham without eggs?
Like cream without peaches
Or, as Mum told me later:
"Like Easter, without Jesus."