A dash of cinnamon

injures the air and the coal black

taste of Parsley, a green

and pleasant memory

of white sauce dancing,

now lays sterile, dead

upon the plate where mouldy

residue starts to grow, reach maturity,

the sweet lament of honey

and the poison tip of angry ochre

sweats in the glass jar, awaiting Time

and thyme again

to carry out the nefarious deed

of putrefying the steak, of leaving dissatisfaction

with the entrée and the mode of entry

for the serrated knife;

the heat is on in the kitchen

as the butter finally curdles

up in the kitchen

and the peppercorns

and garlic bulbs lay festering,

the kitchen no longer a place in which

love is made

as the take out menu revels in

winning the cold war.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016