Berries

In my fingers I hold the larder of summer.

Of fresh spring winds and westerly rains.

Of pale unfurling sun seeking leaves.

Of prickly tendrils skyward reaching.

Of tight fat buds, nourished by morning dew.

Of sudden flowering, visits from pollen powdered butterfly feet.

Of more hot hot sun, a syrupy sweetening. 

Of slowing, mellowing, marinating flavour.

Then plucked from its lofty spire, destined for preservation of summer’s labour to be sampled at leisure in Winter.

1.