. . .

I sit sans light in silence soft,

When a cook enrobed in apron aged appears.

An occurrence that occurs oft.

‘Tis fine wine of tasteful thought that cheers.

.

Life’s wintry cold yoke’s hard boiled,

By gold clad cook of much renown.

With ingredients rich life’s storm is foiled.

When served it undoes the most twisted frown.

.

Into being a scrumptious dish is cooked.

One that is a treat to tongue.

To marvel takes but one good look,

At nutritious sight before it’s, belly-flung.

.

Swallowed thus, egg, gravy and rice,

A gustatory delight unfolding.

Seasoned with impeccable spice,

A Hungering being consoling.

.

When I hunger for answer stew.

When I’ve starved my soul for far too long.

When my order is delayed and overdue,

I depart from company and the prattling throng.

.

In a loud quiet I place myself,

Awaiting the chef that cooks for soul.

I imagine him scrutinise bookshelf,

Selecting recipe to adorn my bowl.

.

At last, it’s found and in a swish he’s here,

My wish granted; the confabulated chef appears.

I ask which dish he hastens to prepare,

His smiling response, “one made with care!”.

. . .

Granville D. Austin