The plates from Sunday lunch are cleared away;
No one – as yet – has any thoughts of tea.
The adults sleep, the children are at play,
Which leaves the place to remnants and to me.
Can cold potatoes and left over meat
Ever the culinary heights attain?
Can what has been a gastronomic treat
Once more its early power to please regain?
Full many scraps of roots that could come in
In deep, unfathomed compost rot away;
Full many a sprout is flung into the bin
To waste its true potential in decay.
Far from the madding crowd’s unschooled surmise
That what's discarded spells the second rate,
From yesterday’s remains will sometimes rise
Dishes that hold their place among the great.