Each afternoon, chef sandwiches a swim
between lunch and dinner service,
swaps deep stock for a turquoise tonic,
souses her frazzled self.
Her freestyle Sabatiers the water,
reheats her silver lane with flutter-kicks.
Head roll - breath - and on her lips she tastes
laksa, dashi, bouillabaisse.
If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Larkin
would be pleased to hear from you.