Sonnet 155: To the Haggis

Sonnet 155: To the Haggis…

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s night?
Thou sits most warmly upon my plate.
Cold winds do shake and frosts do bite
But hot art thou like the fire’s grate.

Soft soups do scald in hot pretence
Then reveal their lack in swift decline,
But thy warm worth does show its sustenance
With neeps and tatties and red red wine.

No pasta from Pisa could you now replace
Nor French fricassee hope a higher grade.
From stomach to stomach thy course thou trace
With memory in laughter, immortal, remade.

So long as winters be cold and heat be amiss..
So long enough sonnet… let’s have our Haggis.


This entry was posted in Poetry.

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