On the glowing rocks
of the kitchen archipelago
four silver-skinned
hob dragons
sputter and spit
a warning of steam.
Steer clear
steer clear,
all sailors say,
they will boil you
or broil you
as they nest
upon earth-blue
seas of fire,
hob dragon children
rattling in their
bellies.

—
[link_popup id=’1536′ link_text=’Please sign up to the newsletter and get some exclusive first looks and news’ name=’Sign Up’]

You’ve just read a food poem by Dom Conlon. If you enjoyed this and would like to support my work then please…