The Tuna Fish

Form: Raven’s Rovi Sonnet 112

Recalling old days, the Sunday market
You and me strolling the stalls, hand in hand
Picking up Sunday lunch, should we forget
Scents of veg echoed twenty pence a pound
As we paid for orange, yellow and green
A rib of beef, our table would be crowned
And the biggest apples our eyes had seen
Nothing will ever beat that tuna fish
Staring down at us stood there on the ground
And my head thinking a meal to be planned
To try something new I was quickly keen
And we agreed tuna for our basket
So Monday’s dinner a new kind of dish
With all the flavour of the deep sea’s wish


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