The kitchen smelt of elderflower, until the grill
warmed to cook sausages, until the boiled water hit the coffee grounds.
Outside we ate breakfast, seated over new mown grass.
A pink rose, open, bowed a stem.
Later, where there is a shallowing over the brown
shaded rocks, the river was forded. An elder bouquet, plucked and fetched home.
A bucketful of perfumed, foamy flower heads stands
ready for brewing.
Now, rose tea steams in the pot.
Sweet spiced vegetables simmer on a slow cook. Under
the petal scents, too, mouthwatering fat-blobs linger in the grill pan.
Somewhere in the sky an aeroplane carries Boy away,
from Heathrow to New Delhi.
Ten days to wait before we hear those stories. I can't
help but think of the market in Singapore, where the smeech of deep-frying
ducks made his eyes water. We went to a café for breakfast then instead, went
busily about our day. When we walked from an air conditioned shopping centre
past a sizzle of food stalls he said in sweetly youthful innocence, with much
feeling and fantastically clear diction: 'I hate that Chinese smell!'
We have teased him about it ever since.
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