Pecan

The Pecan's Tale

In the quiet shire of the orchard, where the apple‑tree leaves sigh,
A timber‑edged pecan stands, a jewel beneath the sky.
Its shell, a rough‑skinned cloak of weathered oak bark and strain,
Whispers of harvest‑time tales, of gold‑filled seeds to gain.

With a crack, its heart releases a scent of honeyed pine;
A taste that drifts of autumn’s sweep, of distant cobblestone.
The nut óvales, dark and buttery, curl like curling ribbons,
Threads of love in every seam, in taste, in matting, in beginnings.

Children gather ’round the oak, their cheeks as rosy as it is,
Baking them into fudge‑scones, into custard, in loamy bliss.
They gleam in the jam‑jar, in the pie which the Sunday‑own subdued,
Bringing families round the hearth, as if the night were tuned.

The pecan, humble, simple, yet with a noble destiny,
Hath flavour that can carve a taste in a palates’s memory.
Blessed by the soil, kissed by the sun, nurtured by the rain,
Its legacy, both finer than a story’s plain refrain.

So let us honour like the bowl of sweets, the buttery jewel in the shell,
In rural kitchens, on terrace terraces, where stories laugh in sleep.
Pecan, your seeds of comfort fly toward each heart in reverie,
A British‑brown delight, you carve a place in all of our day‑by‑day.