Aspic

In copper pots the broth does sigh,
A shimmering veil of aspic lies,
Its jelly holds the rosemary’s sigh,
And carrots wink beneath its chilling guise.

With tender morsels of game or fish,
Each slice a quiet, wobbling dish,
A banquet held in crystal clear,
Where savoury depths and coolness meet, austere.

From Victorian tables to modern fare,
Aspic endures, a gelled affair—
A silent art of patience, salt, and time,
Preserving flavour in a trembling rhyme.