Gumbo

The Gumbo of the Summer‑Warmed Kitchen

In a London kitchen, under flick’r of lamp‑light,
a pot clings to the stove with a stubborn, golden‑brown might.
The jambalaya of colours—red, orange, lime‑green—
spins in the broth like a brass‑brushed machine.

The roux is stirred, a slow‑dancing timbre,
from flour and butter that clings like an old brim.
“Meat beyond the borders, I tell you, my dear,”
cooks the apprentice with her wrist‑sleeve full of cheer.

The greens twist, the beans leap, the seafood, a gentle rogue,
and perfume the air with an ache I could almost smudge.
The scent climbs the stairwell, spills into the pub,
the barman taps a pint and smiles ochre‑flood.

No gormandiser’s the name of what we call it here—
a humble stew, yet nation’s fervour in each clear.
We thicken it, we spice it, with cumin and deep‑rooted thyme,
a soul‑warm soufflé, if jolly’s the rhyme.

Because a gumbo is not just seafaring to Haiti,
but a fusion of coal‑black market and meteorite.
So bring the ladle, dear, and lower your heart’s dial,
for this stew’s primary aim is to savour your bile.

When you pass it at the council hall,
or at the Sunday market where sacks of grain call.
We swear it’s more than a dish; it’s a sense—
a crack of spice in an English tempest’s edge.

So let the griddle of the North be thine gumbo’s beat,
and feel the pirate feather of this tavern’s heat.
For whether your name is Londoner or Wembley fan,
you’re sure to kiss a flavour that bows like a dawn.