From a walled garden and some shepherds’ huts,
a huge, tri-peaked white zeppelin would come
into view. Then Paul Hollywood would close in
across the lawn, his silver quiff cutting
the air like a fin. A crisp oxford shirt
meant to make his eyes pop—a velvety navy
just across the color wheel from his tan.
Mary dispensed praise prudently, as if
pressing a toffee into your palm. But
Paul Hollywood can entwine seven strands
of dough into an ornamental wreath
with the dexterity of a concert pianist.
The rest of the time, he will handle your
bread like airport security. He flips
it upside down, knocks on its bottom,
interrogates it with sausage fingers.
When he is done, he dusts his hands and sheaths
them in his denim carapace. Sometimes we
observed Paul from afar, smoking alone
near the meadows’ edge, pacing like a bull.
Verbatim Poetry 