Vegan

The Veggie‑Flavour of a London Evening

In a cosy flat on Notting Hill, the kettle whistles,
and the tea‑break spills a lattice of steam over plates.
The kitchen’s chalk‑white, the pan’s humming a quiet rhythm,
while a lad, twisting a seedling in a saucer, smiles at the day.

“She’s a vegan,” the neighbour whispers, passing the wooden crate of heirloom tomatoes,
“no more flash‑lighters, no fatter than the grain of a seed.”
The song of the traffic outside, a lorry’s rattle, is drowned by a quiet triumph –
the scent of roasted beetroot, of basil smelling like the summer bogs in Devon.

The sofa cushions are froth‑coloured, winning a polite nod from the morbid hunguru,
and the graphic-only favourite ପ picture of a rainbow treading in the damp was,
“I’ve joined the programme – a pledge, a self‑organise of mind and thumb‑print.”
Biscuit crumbs line the floor like a sunrise on a Cape‑Finch,

the usual sign‑post pointing to a pot of Gazpacho casserole,
a twist of a wind in the dark – a vegan pride, a quiet ferment of the heart.
The bookshelf stands, humming a catalogue of weirdfood, a shout above the routine –
the flavours of the world, paint on a blank plate, dressed in a light of hope.

The flat’s dim glow catches a man’s silver spoon, sipping on oat milk swirling,
and the night sky unfurls a comic book of cravings: a loaf, a lentil loaf,
the timeless chai‑spiced tea that knows only the edges of the village green,
the scent of daisy seeds that drift on a breeze of summer.

I can taste the unity of a single salad of lettuce, the dignity of the act,
the gentle remorse that carries nothing but spies of new country,
the redundancy removed, the cruelty gone up with the starlight of a simple kitchen glass.”