Spring

Fennel pale and feathered,
aniseed and crunch.

Blood orange, the pith and peel of it,
sluicing into nails and the cuts
I hadn’t known were there.
It’s not the colour of blood and its rust,
it’s brighter than that, fizzing.
Not old and inky with iron,
bitter as an olive
puddled in brine,
pressed by the side of a blade against wood.

A lace of dill is pushed into the toss,
a trail of impossible fronds
left to wilt on the board,
like bladder wrack stranded by the tide.

Salt is in the air, the bowl,
salt in and under the paling sky,
on pea shoots spiralling,
dripping oil and lemon down our chins
eating crocuses, spring.

Katie Hourigan is a student of English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Manchester. She enjoys writing, eating, and writing about eating, at katiehourigan.wordpress.com.