|The Mysteries of the Spice Rack
At this time of year, at this time of day,
I'm tempted to wonder why thyme's run out
and mint's hardly started. Oh, I could say
I'm not the sort of man to scream and shout
in a clove crisis - I just need cinnamon
to bake the perfect cake, to get a thing right
the Nigella Lawson way. I'm a person
in turmeric. I look for chervil all night.
Oregano sucks. Ginger has vanished.
Life without Rosemary's hard. My hand
tightens round a jar. I only need to twist.
In the Gary Rhodes world the pages get turned
like a play; like a plot; like a plan.
She went for Basil. I only sprain this wrist.
If you've any comment on this poem, Philip Wilson would be pleased to hear from you.