A Fish Supper

Friday’s feast is fast appearing

In bread and grace filled cups

Unpursing Pisces to pieces of coinage

Cashiered into ready palms

A battered silver darlin’ host

Crown jewel of golden’s wonder

Precious bare white fleshy bones

Dressed in the biting biting vinegar

The weeping stains on the wrapper

As hands are lightly washed

A taste arises from the table

Nourishing a waiting empty hunger

Yea, fish ‘n’ chips, this is food.

Reviews

[Duncan Brown]

France France France................

[Paul Bell]

Fish and chips wrapped in yesterdays news, the business.

[Natalie]

What wonderful delights.
A poem that perfectly sums up my childhood.

A bit of poetry, a bit religion, and some nice fish and chips.

I'll be a kipper on Friday.