Sonnet for an English Breakfast by Andrew Gunn

 

A glass of juice from just-squeezed oranges,
A heap of scrambled eggs upon my toast,
One slice of bacon and two sausages
Fried delicately by my gen'rous host.
A plump greenhouse tomato, halved and grilled,
Three glistening button mushrooms one inch wide;
Hash browns, a pair, with crispy golden gild,
A disc of thick black pudding by their side.
And now, the crescent puddle of baked beans,
A second slice of toast to mop the sauce—
My waitress takes the plate. Her soft smile means
I can’t explain to her my sense of loss.
But coffee, dark and foggy as last night,
Will help me struggle through the morning light.

Originally published 15 May 2013.

© 2018 Deep Fried Noir Ltd