Real Peas

Those peas you shuffle round your plate,
Won’t go no matter how you fool
And, though they’re something that you hate,
‘Clean plate gets pudding’ that’s the rule.

I sympathise. Those peas aren’t peas
Bred for succulence and taste
But engineer-designed to ease
Machin’ry problems and cut waste.

Tinned peas were once our winter fare,
We’d dream of each new-season’s crop.
Though dear at first, what did we care
With craving such as that to sop.

We’d dig new spuds, knock off a chook,
We’d disembowel pods with a thumb,
Each of us taking part to cook
The sybaritic feast to come.

‘Twas not the dormant buds burst out
Nor avian lovers on the wing
But peas, real peas, that brought about
Our own belated Rite of Spring.