The Humble Turnip

A meditation on the unremarkable: the turnip that neither strives nor pretends, yet quietly sustains everything around it. Not all strength announces itself. The roses perform with a tragic flair, White lilies faint in the garden air. While the turnip sits on the heavy mud, Easily outcompeting the mighty spud. "It’s a bore," cried Julian, "a dusty sin, With no wit without, and no soul within." But Alistair smiled with a weary grace, Its power lies not in its particular taste. A stout, earthy wisdom that survives the knife, The quiet, cold starch of an unbothered life. It’s the root of the feast that needs no applause, Flavour enhancement when not eaten raw. "It lacks the earth of the truffle's heart, And the peach’s sweet and touch of tart. It doesn't try to reach up into the sky, Or trouble itself with the reason 'why'." "It is turnip through and through," Alistair exclaimed, "While we are but images of the things in the frame. No inner self haunts it, no ego, nor dread, Just the white flesh to the game it has wed." A stout, earthy wisdom that survives the knife, The quiet, cold starch of an unbothered life. It’s the root of the feast that needs no applause, Flavour enhancement when not eaten raw. "I’m humbled," said Alistair, "by that orb in the pot; The plainest of roots that improves the whole lot. And just like the unremarkable, who toil in the dirt, It is they we rely on, to keep us out of work."