Blueberry Crumble
cinnamon seeps into the home and I can already smell the sugar crumble
a fragrance of childhood innocence captures memories and recollections
different times they were when fresh food could only be bought in season
or harvested from a garden plot that teased my taste buds when growing
beans and potatoes where for the winter alongside spicy pickled cucumber
carrots and beet root were quietly flourishing under cover of fertile soil
to warm as soup longing hearts and bodies when the heating stayed cold
it was post-war and my family still remembered frost bombs and hunger
giving shelter a garden loo I remember was painted and faded in Royal Blue
with a heart carved out into the door although there was probably none
every time you sat there you knew you were producing valuable compost
sustainable living is neither a very modern invention nor flatulent science
behind it a rampant blueberry hedge stood tall and proud in the autumn
you had to duck and stretch out to pick the harvest from thorny branches
did not mind the scratches and bleeding because hunters and gatherers
know that food on the table required skill resilience as well as tough toil
the lacerations were like medals and badges of honour for the pickers
fuelled the collection bucked mixed with sweat from young skin full of
endurance purpose and meaningful clusters of patience and strong hope
for life pastry and home cooking in years when food had not to be fast
much later a psychotherapy lecturer painted a picture of therapeutics
and reminded me that blueberry crumble starts with flowering beauty
proceeds through passion and effort with spiky endeavour to seed
and preserving fruit and effort is a necessary rite of passage to reap
I have succumbed to taking my pills and they assist me on my journey
but when I feel blue I sit in my garden and listen for birds in the hedge
share crops with bees and grateful wasps in silence no sting in the tale
eat biscuits and feast on remembrance so that my nostrils fill with joy
21st August 2020
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