Tasted The Magic They Were

It was the day of the bog-boys
clandestine feast, charcoal
roasted potatoes blackened
brutally in the heat but sweeter
than any fruit imaginable.

With burnt fingers and hot buttered
breath we praised intrepid thieves
who stole the spuds – rabbited from
rows in our neighbour field,
hunched beside a fire burnt low,
a billy of tea, six spuds each
and you and me filling our guts.
When we’d had enough
the rest went back into the fire,
no dishes to wash, utensils to dry,
no damning evidence.

Dinner that night and magnificent
scent assails bog-boy miscreants –
minted new potatoes (boiled in
their skins) in a heady welcoming.
We budding thieves quailed to find
our game shamefully exposed, the
rows we raided were our own, and those
boiled and buttered mint-flavoured
potatoes tasted the magic they were.

Say, brother, who’s dumb idea was it
to ROAST new potatoes?
© 2007-02-20, I.D. Carswell