Broil

In the kitchen’s quiet hour,
A skillet sings beneath the flame,
Thin slices of beef lay low,
Their edges catching amber glow.

The heat climbs, a steady broil,
Turning pink to caramel coil,
Juices hiss, a fragrant steam,
Rising like a whispered dream.

Outside, the garden sighs in rain,
Yet inside, the pan’s refrain—
A sizzle bright, a crackle soft,
A dance of fire, a flavour aloft.

When the timer sighs its low,
We lift the lid, the aromas flow,
Tender morsels, crisp and brown,
Served with pride on pewter crown.

Thus broil, both flame and feud,
Transforms the plain to gratitude—
A simple act, yet richly told,
In British kitchens, brave and bold.