I look at them with dismay.
Black and red,
Ready to pick.
Behind the lavender bushes,
In the 'snakey' patch,
Ripe when the Sun God sets my head on fire.
I baulk.
Perhaps I will pick them at dusk,
Or dawn.
I'll wear gumboots.
So tedious,
I work out a system.
Strip each branch.
The reds are small and fragile,
They cling in droops.
The blacks robust.
But amongst the leaves,
Are the more difficult.
Pick and plan.
Wine, Cordial or maybe,
Jam.
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