The Dessert

Beyond the briars of the waking world,

Where spells are spun in curtains pale and curled,

There lies a kitchen touched by elder lore,

Whose shadows stretch across an enchanted floor.

The afternoon puts on a golden hue,

And time forgets what it was meant to do.

Upon the table, clustered in a bowl,

The gooseberries wait to stir a drowsy soul—

Translucent lanterns, draped in jade and green,

The tartest jewels of a hidden queen.

With trembling hands of memory and grace,

We weave the magic of a vanished place.

A pinch of spice, a drift of flour snow,

To catch the embers of the hearth below;

Then oats and butter, crumbled like the stars,

To pave the way past phantom-guarded bars.

Into the glowing dragon-vent it goes,

While through the room a ancient story blows.

It bubbles upward, amber-bright and sweet,

A fragrant potion for a bittersweet.

One taste—and suddenly the years unspool:

We run again beside the forest pool,

Where fairies laugh among the clover tips,

And time is tasted on the gooseberry's lips.