Simple.
Soft brown melt-in-the-mouth meat
vying for space with chunks of carrots, swedes, onion and peas.
Jostling in juices,
gyrating in gravy.
Served up with potatoes.
Always potatoes.
Boiled or beloved mash.
Take stock at steak stew.
I can taste it now,
but only in my memory.
I salute her stew.
No longer served or savoured.
Though strongly remembered,
and made in remembrance,
by me,
but it's never as good as my mother's.
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