I love exotic bottles with their breath balsamic,
Where fragrance stays and curves promise.
Magical futures might be implied.
In the spice rack of my pride
These will be my kitchen totems.
So happy in my planning
I scrape the labels back
To the sandstock of the glass
I wonder, a class thing perhaps
To gentrify these pickle jars.
I gently warm the nicest oils
Add garlic, chilli, imagination,
My hope of meals and salad dreams.
And then I store them, wait and see
Find other little kitchen schemes.
Dragged out later from the dust
Back of the shelf, lid half rust
Debate if to taste, with deadened nerves
The flavour if any, not equal to the curves.