Tuber

In the cool, damp earth where shadows lie,
A humble tuber waits, unnoticed, shy.
Its knotted flesh, a quiet store,
Holds summer’s sun in starch‑rich core.

From furrowed rows the sprouts emerge,
Green tips that pierce the loamy surge.
Each swollen root, a patient heart,
Feeds the table, plays its part.

Boiled, mashed, or roasted till they’re gold,
Their earthy taste—comfort untold.
In Britain’s fields, beneath the grey,
The tuber gives, day after day.