Our Fruits
Guelder flushed into rose, fruits translucent,
dripping, but not ours. The birds had them;
and the rowan's too before August was out.
Why? Ours must taste the best.
Beyond the golden ground beneath the cherry
rose hips like rubies reflect the sun.
Tripping over rooted brambles I reach
for the last sweet blackberry.
Many apples are stored, others fermenting;
pears in the cool; crabs into jelly and gin;
damsons now jam, or frozen for crumble,
and wine in waiting.
I reflect on the season, thankful
and with the hope of tasting it again.
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