Sage
Burned at the threshold in November. Steeped with pepper when the throat first roughens.
The rest is weather.
A QUIET CATALOG OF LEAVES, ROOTS & BLOOMS · OBSERVED, NOT GROWN.
six plants, three seasons, one promise.
Burned at the threshold in November. Steeped with pepper when the throat first roughens.
Found along the dry path. The flower keeps colour into December if cut before the bees forget it.
Hung above the bed in late summer. The dream returns silver, the morning returns slow.
The hedge at the lane’s end. Flowers cordialled in June; berries simmered when the first frost lays.
Crushed between two fingers on a slow walk. Smells the way a kitchen does before guests arrive.
Cut with gloves before the flowering. Three leaves a week, our grandmother said, and meant it.
four infusions for four hours of the day.
Tear four fresh sage leaves. Cover with water just off the boil. Crack two peppercorns over the cup — not into it. Cover.
A pinch of yarrow flower, six leaves of mint, a curl of lemon peel. Steep covered; the steam is part of the cure.
Linden blossom in a pre-warmed pot. Pour gently. When it cools to the lip’s temperature, stir in raw honey, never before.
Warm milk — not hot. Dried mugwort, one whole star, a thread of honey. Drink slowly. Leave the cup by the bed.
Cut too late and they thicken; the leaves go to seed and the soup turns bitter. Cut in May, dry on the rack by the window.
The hedgerow turns inside-out an hour before; leaves show their pale undersides. Picked elder on the way back.
She kept the bunch tied with linen thread and only ever took three. A small ritual, but the jar lasted the winter.