|The moment Fran realised that all other loves, so far, had been inferior, and wondered how to tell her husband that she was leaving him for a dairy product.|
Wednesday, 13 April 2016
Evidence that Greek islands aren't the only places where one can have holiday romances
A sonnet in honour of Bakewell Tart ice cream, written after last week's holiday in Cornwall.
I bought you from an ice cream stall in Looe.
The day was balmy. Seagulls screeched above.
You cost me two quid which I thought was steep
until I tasted you. I fell in love.
I ate you by the harbour, looking out
at boats, and children crabbing, while my heart
expanded with a flaming passion, hot
for ice cream tasting like a Bakewell Tart.
My previous loves - vanilla, toffee fudge,
or rum and raisin - these would all, I knew,
be tossed aside, rejected, bade farewell,
in favour of the ecstasy that's you.
Since tasting you, you haunt my nights, my dreams.
You are the crack cocaine of Looe's icecreams.