They come to see her new kitchen;
walls of Wintry Morning Mist skirted
by Icicle White; cupboards in Damascus Steel.
So on trend, they say, for this urban lifestyle.
They do not open the cupboards
and she does not offer, but when they’ve gone
she taps each glossy armoured door
to reveal the treasures stored inside:
love apples steeped in sweet-basil oil,
cherries suspended in rosy syrup,
wild plums pierced and bathed in wine
and chillies crushed into pastes
that will stain lips the shade of Penelope’s,
bitten and kissed after twenty years.