The crimped crust that holds the organs
of this pregnant pie of Cornish coal-fired Aga born,
from clanking womb of cast iron and steel torn.
I feast my eyes on this food, this love, a steaming
forearm of pastry, leaking gravy from its wounds,
and letting out its searing scalding breath.
A beast, a brute, an uncommon creature,
which I cut to feed
- the pastry flesh parts and bleeds,
to congeal on the warm willow pattern plate.
And my teeth sink into the layers of love,
the onion potato skirt and swede.
Its savoury breath melds with that rising from
a cracked tea cup only to be dispelled by the
wood-smoke seeping over the inglenook shroud
from the angry Ash shouting in the grate.