Down the river lane and at the wide corner strawberry
patches carry leaf, not flower, not fruit: but elsewhere; Barton, Carzantic,
Treniffle; blackberries fatten. Four pots of jam have been made; blackberry
with banana; one is opened for breakfast; another picking pot is full in the
fridge, will be pudding later. The hedge is tentacled, prickled with mild
perils, thorn, wasp, horsefly, nettle. Young green berries, hard as carapace,
have their small heads nodding. Dog is grateful for the breeze; she sits to
wait and listen; the recycling truck is late this week, has all its windows
down and the radio loud.
Clouds draw and a gate is open; we explore, we make the cut straw music, a late
summer plink. Here the berries are not abundant, nor ripe, but the field is
gold-red striped, puffed with stray seed. In the corner where the stream drips
thorough Dog frolics in its hollowed bed, roofed in oak leaf; and out comes the
sun.
Comments