A poem


Summer is

the season of gatherers:

when picking raspberries

I see the world from upside-down

bent over peering

beneath the white underbellies of leaves for the plump red ones

scratched arms reaching

past prickling canes

- grasping fruit - dangling like a earrings on a

lovely lady

too soft: fingers stained with red mash too hard: a pale pink nub and a resistant pluck just right: crimson clusters sweetly slip from the white pith

!plump perfection!

the mouldering or half-eaten ones fall to the ground

with a quick

finger-flick

(nature’s share)

for birds and rabbits

and bugs.

a bowlful of raspberries

rinsed in cool water & sitting at the counter lasts only until noticed by busy boys passing through

on their way

to bike to swim

to play

to gather memories

from a summer perspective.