Images too can have unexpected origins. I was surprised when burnt larks arrived into the poem below. It came from an old cook-book, Mrs Beeton's; somehow it had stayed in my head from childhood. (My mother had the book). I searched online, but couldn't find it: a roasting tin or dish with an array of roasted larks on it.
I found these instead, there just might be a poem our two lurking somewhere in these delectable-looking pies. If you find one please send it here for posting.
|Mrs Marshall’s The Cookery Book (London: 1885)|
burst like plastic footballs.
Waiting on this sand-paper plain,
I am no more than a skull
With biro for harpoon,
I remain still
in the little pool of my shadow,
turning questions over
on the spit of my mind;
I have burnt larks on my plate.