Garlic sails its little sampan
across the worktop.
My place, says the wok, Half an hour.
Spain’s disc of oil is mid-day sun
and Oregano releases scent, Joy of the Mountain.
Slipping his brown gabardine, Onion calls
Hey, tears are universal,
and in go a couple of mine.
Pool-party, California style
calls the pan, Intermingle.
The mix looks up with olive eyes.
Puree slides in, Water chuckles from the kettle.
Flakes of tuna take their final swim.
Cherry tomatoes run around their wooden playground
like laughing children.
Piquanté peppers come with open hearts.
China, Greece, Kerala, Wiltshire, Spain,
the Western Central Pacific Ocean,
Italy, Morocco, South Africa, the Mediterranean –
everyone’s in, and singing.