It’s the season for wild garlic,
and we were told to follow our noses
for the carpet of future pesto.
Each leaf we picked we handled with care,
neatly folding them like bank notes,
one on top of the other, none to spare,
careful of the tender root and stem
so next year they’ll return and grow
and someone else will find them.
I’m not sure what to say – they met
the chopping board that night,
grouped together with salt and black pepper,
and the scent of wild and natural and free
was lost in the mortar versus pestle,
lost in following the recipe.