Rosemary
Pouring a glass of blackcurrant at my parents,
I notice the rosemary bush, the size of my fist,
on the window sill in its terracotta pot,
and I remember telling them of when
I stayed with Franz in Neunen last Autumn.
How his parents had bought some rosemary from the market,
in a plastic punnet with soil and roots in the bottom,
and grew it into a shrub, like a six feet tall cough sweet.
You could smell it when you walked up to the house.
I still think about the lasagne his parents made that night.
My mum walks in with dad, each with a plastic bag
of shopping and drops them on the counter.
She lifts out the thyme and mint out onto the sill
in their packets, then takes the rosemary
and transfers it gently into the terracotta.