Beads of soup-sweat cling
To my arm hair as I hack a hulk of turnip. Slabs of flesh,
sculpted into yellow dice, tumble
onto a hummock of carrots. Resting
On the surface of a simmering pot, a sliced leek splays,
Its silver loops belch hoops of pungent fog.
My window is crying.
The pot hisses and pirouetting lentils rise to the surface and tumble,
Dragging sodden leek down into the rolling stock.
Fists of steam punch the air,
Then creep and crawl
Around the walls like silver ghosts. Waving.
I wipe my brow on a dishcloth; toss the root vegetables into the pot
Then open the window,
The smell of autumn drifts outside.
© Kirsty Lear-Grant