I suppose that when we say “poached salmon”
we mean it’s simmering, in foil. And then 
we add lemon juice. But back in those days, our place,
we meant the salmon from the stretch of river
that ran through Big House estate.

Oh yes, we poached and foraged then. We were
an organic age. The leaves of the hawthorn tree
we chewed, we called them bread-and-cheese.
Blackberries, goosegogs. We encouraged our dogs
to eat grass, called the dog’s best medicine,
saved calling in the vet. And the whole Lane
would crave for Mrs. John’s tomatoes,
raised on the purest chicken-shit.

When I went back a generation on,
two generations nearly, they were feeding 
off frozen beefburgers and oven chips,
travelling on Saturdays to Swansea
and the national retailers. The organic thing,
sustainability, meant incomers with beards.

But here’s a lockdown story for you ..

Sydney is caring for his granddaughter,
home-schooling for the week. The teachers
have mentioned family history, and he’s found
his mother’s ration book and Wartime Recipes.
So he and Cheryl cook potato piglets,
made in ’42 from sausage and potatoes.
(Today’s potatoes were grown in Sydney’s garden.
The sausages came from Tesco.)

I’ve found the apple corer, Cheryl. 
The book says remove a centre core, 
using an apple corer, from the length of each potato,
and stuff the cavity with sausage meat. 
Bake in the usual way. (Got that? The baking tin? Oven?).
Arrange the piglets on a bed of cooked cabbage. 

In his garden, the rows of spuds are half-opened,
and the rooks are wheeling harshly away
into the white-grey sky of a blustery summer.