Sunday, 14 December 2014

A Poem To Pour On Your Sunday Roast

On Sundays, I eat.
Make up for lost time.

Roast potatoes,
chicken and gravy
made to my own recipe.

Rock and roll is okay,
but a good stock and oil
is where it's really at.

If the hippies
in the sixties
had known this,
they would have got busted
for possession of Oxo cubes.

Gravy is like a concept album.
I get mine from my very own graveyard.

It has a continuous thread of flavour
running through it like a good bass and rhythm section,
but it's the tinkering with herbs,
the splashing in of wine that adds a further,
truly cosmic dimension.

A continual work in progress
to reach the gravy grail
of ever elusive perfection.
Carcinogen busting carrots,
cabbage and broccoli.

Stoking up, fuelling myself for the week ahead
where meals get skipped or forgotten.

Or if they are remembered,
they probably do more harm than good.

No two gravies are ever quite the same.
Which is precisely the point to it.

So let go,
set sail, float
your very own gravy boat.


2 comments:

  1. "If the hippies
    in the sixties
    had known this,
    they would have got busted
    for possession of Oxo cubes."

    LOVED!!!!!! : )

    ......( this also caught my ear, just like someone whispering from the wings of this poem, a little peripheral message, just for me....."So let go,
    set sail, float"......hmmm...... )

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Exactly so. Glad you liked this one, Liz. Thank you.

      Delete

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