A lad with tousled hair tossing shortcrust pie,
with hands as cracked as the skin on his forehead
when he says 'ello to the princess's maid.
Fig juice spilling down his chapped knuckles like blood,
staining his face as he wipes off the sweat caused
by the oven; he can't stand it. Escaping
to the familiar bales of hay never masks
his fennel fragrance; his anise aroma.
He leaves a trail of flour through his matted locks.
Working so young and eating the rejects—
gruel.
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