Sloe Gin In August
Round and ready
Fit to burst
They grow like grapes here
Cheek to cheek they bend the bones of the branches
Every year
Two daughters
A mother
A grandmother
Rid the jewels of their armour
Delicately balancing beauty between thumb and forefinger
Tough
Like compacted snow
I know
I know that one swift squeeze and summer would seep
Right through its purple skin
In the basket that lays on the ground
Their silver crowns reflect the sun
Straight up to our thighs and hips and cheeks
They proudly await their fate.
A drop in the deep
Bitter liquid
Three months of bleeding sweetness in the dark
The end.
Copyright © Gracie Bawden | Year Posted 2011
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