Pukka Pies

Gravy, junk of the soil,
pastry, of this world,
then if you try and keep it
it won't
just dust on the bones
of the catacomb.

I forced myself
to find complexity in the
blandess,
the northern bog-tainted,
peat of it all.

A tin of pineapples
meant the world,
a lava lamp play of
condensed milk,
peach liquor diffusion.

Celebrate the food,
celebrate the people,
a nation awakened,
against its worse judgement.