I love you slender tenderstem, your beauty hewn in stalks,
your greenness not naivety, your sophistication talks
in a language lacking lexicon but still I comprehend,
evoking dreams of goodness in a meal that shouldn't end.
I love you tender slenderstem, your name evoking pleasure
of a dish that pleases eye and mouth in glorious equal measure.
You make me happy when I think of the way that I'll prepare,
boiled, steamed or stir-fried or raw and naked fare.
I love you tender broccoli, I still recall the font
of a menu entry writ in script in a rated restaurant.
Rack of lamb recumbent on a bed composed of you,
with boiled potatoes on the side and a lovely red wine jus.
I love you slender tenderstem and can't abide the thought
of you lying there with price reduced, alone, yet to be bought.
I'd rather take you home with me on the front seat of my car
and carefully prepare you, seal you in a jar.
Although confinement seems so cruel
I'm sure, all things considered,
I'd rather see you in your prime
than faded, sad and withered.
For I love you slender tenderstem...
By Alan Dickie
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