[basil ransome-davies]

Some men dream big: fantastic wealth, a life on sunny shores
Of sumptuous, pampered indolence and ease,
But my dream-objects are minute: the Penicillium spores
That grow the tasty veins in Roquefort cheese.
The hard-wired artistry they show, the energy and zeal,
Prodigious in their low-lit limestone caves,
Inscribing emerald traces in each immature white wheel,
A multitude of tiny, willing slaves,
Amenable and mellow as the lovely Lacaune ewes
Whose salted milk they magically enhance,
A beneficial fungus with a mission to infuse,
The pride of the Larzac – indeed, of France.
I'm cheesy as Bill Clinton. Cheese concludes my every meal.
I play the fromage field and wouldn't jib
At any blue bar Danish, but my fantasy ideal
Is Côtes du Tarn and Roquefort, ad lib.