Whisk

In the quiet kitchen, steel curls and sings,
A whisk of wire, a dancer’s rings.
It twirls through cream, it lifts the white,
Turning batter into morning light.

Each loop a promise, each sweep a sigh,
As flour and egg learn how to fly.
The wooden spoon may watch and wait,
But only whisk can aerate fate.

So raise your arm, let circles gleam,
In British kitchens, live the dream:
A simple tool, yet full of grace—
The humble whisk, time and space.