At your service

An evolving collection of poems.

The almond croissant

While queueing up at the bakery one morning

Today I saw a croissant πŸ₯ 
slide off the wobbly apex of a pile.
An almond fell, its sugar-coated sigh
a last goodbye before hitting the floor
alone, uncrunched.

The pyramid of crescents had been saved
by rapid tongs that clasped the butter moon
preserving the deliciousness of taste
while sacrificing beauty β€” never mind:
a snack for later.

And after being reminded
that anyone can plummet from the top,
that’s better to be crushed than be forlorn,
that care’s an instinct you can count upon,
I drank my coffee.

9 Nov 2025

The Angel of Zamora

A true story from a long time ago

A 20 year-old me with best man Antonio
β€˜Twas all we’d got. In any circumstances 
that pile of coins would not have been enough;
we hoped our hungry eyes would boost our chances,
we’d left our bikes outside, the ride was tough.

And then the lady came. Her eyes confirmed
that fair exchange would never satisfy
our double appetite; she saw, she turned…
all we could do was wait, and wish, and sigh.

π‘Šπ‘’β€™π‘£π‘’ π‘π‘’π‘‘π‘Žπ‘™π‘™π‘’π‘‘ π‘Žπ‘™π‘™ π‘œπ‘“ π‘†π‘π‘Žπ‘–π‘›
π‘€π‘’β€™π‘Ÿπ‘’ π‘™π‘’π‘Žπ‘£π‘–π‘›π‘” π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘€π‘’π‘ π‘’π‘‘π‘Ž 
π‘‘π‘œπ‘›π‘–π‘”β„Žπ‘‘ 𝑀𝑒’𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑖𝑛 π‘ƒπ‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘’π‘”π‘Žπ‘™
𝑀𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑑 π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘™π‘Žπ‘ π‘‘ π‘π‘’π‘ π‘’π‘‘π‘Ž

Alone in the white room we sat in silence,
now mentally prepared to eat the crumbs,
it was a time to exercise our patience,
to think good things while twiddling our thumbs

But soon, the yawn of battered swinging doors
exhaled the warming fragrance of a stew
the nostrils opened up, the eyelids closed,
a grateful smile our gratifying clue.

π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘β„Žπ‘–π‘π‘˜π‘’π‘›π‘  𝑖𝑛 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑑
π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘β„Žπ‘–π‘™π‘‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘› 𝑖𝑛 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ 𝑠𝑒𝑛
π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘Žπ‘‘π‘’π‘™π‘‘π‘  𝑖𝑛 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘œπ‘‘β„Žπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘œπ‘š
π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘’ β„Žπ‘Žπ‘£π‘–π‘›π‘” π‘ π‘œ π‘šπ‘’π‘β„Ž 𝑓𝑒𝑛

Alone in the white room we slurped our supper
and, judging by the sounds, a village feast
was kicking off next door, from loud to louder,
they wouldn’t eat leftovers BUT A BEAST!

Not long thereafter, caravans of trays
flashed past us, a parade of such excess
to make our fortune feel like a disgrace:
Lucullus taunting Tantalus… no less!

π‘‡π‘€π‘œ 𝑔𝑒𝑦𝑠 𝑖𝑛 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ πΆπ‘Žπ‘›π‘‘π‘–π‘›π‘Ž
π‘‘π‘€π‘œ π‘’π‘šπ‘π‘‘π‘¦ π‘π‘™π‘Žπ‘‘π‘’π‘  𝑖𝑛 π‘“π‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘›π‘‘
π‘‘π‘œπ‘œ 𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 π‘π‘Žπ‘ β„Ž 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙 π‘›π‘œπ‘‘ π‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘šπ‘–π‘‘
π‘‘β„Žπ‘’π‘š π‘’π‘Žπ‘‘π‘–π‘›π‘” π‘€β„Žπ‘Žπ‘‘ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’π‘¦ π‘€π‘Žπ‘›π‘‘

A last lick of the spoon and we were ready
to thank and say: β€œπ΄π‘‘π‘–π‘œπ‘ ! β€œ, be on our way
but… wouldn’t it be wondrous if the lady
could read inside our minds and make our day?

And then the smile of happy swinging doors
beguiled us with the object of our craving,
two monster char-grilled steaks! She said: β€œthey’re yours
π‘π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘žπ‘’π‘’ 𝑒𝑙 π‘‘π‘–π‘›π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘œ doesn’t matter when you’re starving. β€œ

29 Jun 2024

Italian time machine

My fave: Badiani’s Buontalenti & Pistacchio
In line, and in age order. It’s uncanny
the way that they transform as they get near:
I swear that, three steps back, she was a granny
the child in front, excited to be here.

The colours of the rainbow lie before her
piled high, each in their tub, a frozen wave;
imagination merges them together 
but in a moment she will pick her fave.

Elation, indecision, heav’nly bliss
as tongue and lips at last make the connection…
delicious, yet a rather messy kiss,

a nostos into childhood, a suspension
of care and woe, a treat one shouldn’t miss:
Gelato, what a magical invention!

6 Jun 2024

The unknown matchmaker

Tonnarelli Cacio e Pepe at ObicΓ  Canary Wharf
As brothers, they could not have been more different:
one ivory, one ebony, the first
sharp and intense; the second subtle, dry;
one independent, one gregarious but
together splendid.

Two merry sisters, Tonnarella and Aqua,
were similarly matched: when warm and bubbly,
the latter brought the best out of her twin
then disappeared with understatement but
something was missing.

One day, the god of Love became aware
of sentimental gaps among his targets
and with some help from an italian cuoco
he went to work to rectify un poco.

The pairing-up of siblings was inspired: 
when Cacio met the disappearing Aqua,
he melted on the spot… and Tonnarella?
with Pepe’s sprinkle she was la piΓΉ bella!

Who gets the credit then?
Some days, when the routine is just too much
I ping my friend for lunch and then he knows
it only means one thing: to meet half-way
at 𝑂𝑛𝑒 π΅π‘Žπ‘›π‘˜ π‘†π‘‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘’π‘‘β€¦

That’s where an unknown chef,
unnoticed by white collars on their break,
day after day is telling unknown tales
of food and spices joined with caring care
in luscious marriage.

Hail to the Unknown Chef! 
For George and me there truly’s nothing better
Than water, tonnarelli, cacio and pepper!

26 May 2024

Bread and more

Mark, from Gail’s bakery in Blackheath
(ph. from Gail’s bakery on X)
A dove’s aflutter by the railway bridge,
by heads lined-up for coffee, bread or treats;
it lands, and on a table finds its peace.

Inside, a smile’s afloat behind the counter,
enhancing busy hands that pick and pack
and tap and pass, engloved, and wipe and wave.

Those Prada frames, that salt-and-pepper goatee
greet gaily every person in the queue
as if they were the first, a human tide
now thick, now thin… 

β€” β€œWho’s next? β€œ he pipes, as if
Blackheath were Hamelin. 

β€” β€œI am the next!
A sausage roll, a seeded loaf, a raisin swirl, please. β€œ

Impeccable, he pulls a final trick:
my empty shopping bag, returned with pleasure,
is now a fragrant purse of victual treasure.

I thank. 
   I smile. 
      The dove flies in the sky.

24 May 2024