Ode to Celery

Pale charm

and difficult


you have

been so often

misused, and

found among the wrong kind and at the wrong time

of year, too. You should be

dirty and rich –

prized savoury root


by dark Fenland

minerals – in Winter



I like you

soft and tender from

slow heat,

buried under

thickened white liquid,


with shards of hardened, salty

fermented milk

– of some type or other  –

and then scorched, by

hot metal bars.


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