Several fruits the squash
plant started, lately: each of them had putrefied, no bigger than a fat thumb,
grey furred. The stems leaked as they were cut, as all the wide and finely
spined leaves were sliced out and a green overflow drifted up against the fence
next to the compost bin. Several more fruits were seen, hard greenish fruits
that seemed impervious to mould, too late: the stems all cut, the roots dug up.
Too late! But here, in the opened space, is room for potted melon plants to
unconfine roots. Melons are summer fruit: pumpkins are for autumn? But the pale
outgrowths swell healthy, hang content from trellis in the topsy-turvy
polytunnel. Outside more blackberries are picked and picked. The hedges bloom butterflies
and sometimes one will sit on a dark-bright berry, slurping juice: carefully
watched, though as yet none have changed colour. The air is hot or cold without
intermediate: summer and autumn awkwardly spliced.
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