Dry earth spits dust, puffballs release spores,
tiny brown smokes. I remember hearing
the first welcome rattle on cabbages,
how the waxy leaves grew globes
of magnifying water, each with a dazzle
just above the lower margin. I looked
for the sunsource, found it in a patch
of brighter sky.
Hated the childhood flavour, love it now
with butter, pepper, caraway,
allied to lamb and potatoes, and later
a double-glazed lie-down,
a watery recollection.
by Colin Will