Gravy

On a Sunday table, the great old kitchen brims,
the pan of beef, the kettle running,
a swirl of butter‑rich taint – the gravy,
the living memory of a country’s hearth.

It rises like a golden cloud, beurre‑white,
breathing in the creak of fire‑timed walls;
a lumpy texture brushed over roast potatoes,
the hue of summer mud deep and dark.

A spoonful of this liquids’ warmth –
a darker spice of pepper, the gentle ache of rosemary—
the choir of flavours that sings beneath the toast.

Gravy, the quiet heart of a meal,
the colour that softens a seasoned dish,
would turn the dullest diet to delight,
a humble sauce, a festival of flavour, and, in its rush, a piece of home.