Strawberries
Strawberries
Day 24: write a poem about a particular fruit. We're growing strawberries on a bigger scale for the first time this year - up to now I've grown half a dozen plants in a patio pot and the birds have pinched most of them. It's turned out to be quite a bit more work, what with weeding, netting and watering, but we're looking forward to a good crop to reward all our effort.
Springtime, and three rows of heritage strawberries
Fill our planter with circles of jagged darkgreen leaves,
Shading their clusters of tiny, hard, yellow bud-balls
Waiting patiently for long summer days to turn them rosy.
A few delicate white flowers dance, calling out for pollination
But now their bed lies covered with a netting arch,
To save them from birds with keener senses than ours,
Who would pre-empt our harvest, given half a chance.
This bed lies full of promise, full of memories of other times
When as a child I would search through the mass of leaves
To find the hidden treasure - soft hearts of ruby red
Their firm softness filling my cupped hands
The juice of overripe fruit seeping between overeager fingers.
I remember so well the first bite:
The sudden give of the skin beneath sharp teeth,
The scented flesh melting on my tongue,
Juice running down my chin,
My summer dress revealing what I'd been up to.
This year, I'm looking forward to our careful harvest
Once again sorting through to pick the ripest fruit,
Deciding which to pick and which to leave a few days longer
Which are ready now to eat in bowls with cream
Which will be stewed and frozen for autumnal crumble
Which dried, for adding to bowls of cereal,
And which will make the sweetest jam of all.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Day 24: write a poem about a particular fruit. We're growing strawberries on a bigger scale for the first time this year - up to now I've grown half a dozen plants in a patio pot and the birds have pinched most of them. It's turned out to be quite a bit more work, what with weeding, netting and watering, but we're looking forward to a good crop to reward all our effort.
Springtime, and three rows of heritage strawberries
Fill our planter with circles of jagged darkgreen leaves,
Shading their clusters of tiny, hard, yellow bud-balls
Waiting patiently for long summer days to turn them rosy.
A few delicate white flowers dance, calling out for pollination
But now their bed lies covered with a netting arch,
To save them from birds with keener senses than ours,
Who would pre-empt our harvest, given half a chance.
This bed lies full of promise, full of memories of other times
When as a child I would search through the mass of leaves
To find the hidden treasure - soft hearts of ruby red
Their firm softness filling my cupped hands
The juice of overripe fruit seeping between overeager fingers.
I remember so well the first bite:
The sudden give of the skin beneath sharp teeth,
The scented flesh melting on my tongue,
Juice running down my chin,
My summer dress revealing what I'd been up to.
This year, I'm looking forward to our careful harvest
Once again sorting through to pick the ripest fruit,
Deciding which to pick and which to leave a few days longer
Which are ready now to eat in bowls with cream
Which will be stewed and frozen for autumnal crumble
Which dried, for adding to bowls of cereal,
And which will make the sweetest jam of all.
© Copyright 2020. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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