Twilight in the Grove where, at this time of year, the few street lamps seem to hang from the bare branches of the trees, or else, like this one, reach up to touch them.On a pub menu the words "pie of the week" reminds me of an Australian colleague whom I haven't seen for many years. He told me about a local delicacy in Adelaide from where he came. This is a "pie floater" , a pie floating in a dish of gravy. I have never tried one but I sometimes think about it, as I do today.
From the train I see a large empty field and right in the middle of it a solitary crow, regal and self-sufficient and somehow noble.
2 comments:
There was one chunk of extreme nostalgia I could have added to my recent Bradford verse. The pubs have closed and we are all making our way to Pie Herbert's. There to be served a small deep earthenware dish into which a conventional pork pie fits as neatly as a piston in a cylinder. After which mushy peas are added (with a tinge of mustard sauce), the green liquor forcing its way downwards to create a mushy pie. I need to be quite drunk before the memory of this snack tickles my taste-buds.
Hunger is supposed to be the best sauce. I can imagine that if you were hungry that piston-like pie, would be very satisfying. Though I can see too that a few pints under the belt would help. Perhaps a poem just for Pie Herbert!
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