fingers blue from blackberries gready pick
for the mouth and not the tupperware
bowl
....
Picking prickled fingers lift blackberries
from the bramble bush, but not so fast
as children cram them in their mouth.
Away across the scorched black field stands
the tower of the church, marking up
the stipend, to be counted into purse.
....
Picking prickled fingers lift blackberries
from the bramble bush, but not so fast
as children cram them in their mouth.
Away across the scorched black field stands
the tower of the church, counting out
the stipend with which to fill it's purse.
But not today, with all the crops gathered
they with baskets and bowls come, these
pickers of sloes and berries.
...
picking prickled fingers lift blackberries
from the bramble bush, but not so fast
as children cram them in their mouth.
....
All summer the mole catcher has been round
checking the traps an noting the best place
for sloes.
....
The black greased gear of the tri-speed drum
glisten in the almost warm lat September sun.
The old woman in a headscarf ceases picking sloes
to watch the boys in the river throwing stones.
....
to watch the boys on the bank throw thunking
stones.
....
The black greased gear of the tri-speed drum
glistens in the almost warm late September sun.
The old woman, in the headscarf, ceases picking sloes
to watch the boys on the bank throw, thunking, stones.
....
The black greased gear of the tri-speed drum
glistens in the almost warm of the late September
sun. The old woman in the headscarf ceases picking
sloes to watch the noisy boys on the bank
cheer while skimming stones. Their voices
more than loud, catch the stillness rising
one last time in summer. Weighing a sloe
in her hand against the hard black skin.
...
The voices more than loud. They catch
the last stillness rising, hard as the fruit
she weighs in her hand. Tough as the skin
the turning year moves a little more
as clouded night closes in.
....
Their voices more than loud, haggle
for the flattest stone, as bending the knee
they admire the jolting jump of others.
....
Louder than loud from the whisping reeds
breaks the voices of boys wading into wait-high
water. The glistening gear of the tri-speed
drum catches at the warm late September
sun, as the woman in a headscarf, picks sloes.
She works without watching the boys
her hands taking only the fruit that yields
to her touch.
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