Damsons

in the last of the long golden evenings

we shake the tree,

raining purple

onto falling leaves.

we crouch collecting,

leave powdered white-sweet-mould

for dying-summer-butterflies,

leave stoned drinking holes

for drowsy wasps to souse.

cross-legged by piles

I finger

the slippery sweet,

pinch the pip

squeeze pulped,

bruised flesh

till it bursts,

splits

squirts

dribbles

sticky juice

to my wrists

If you enjoyed reading this please share it with friends. You might also be interested in talking to me about coaching , or maybe try some of my online courses (some are free), or treat yourself to a climate protecting pamper with vegan friendly, organic Tropic which supports the planting of forests and education in deprived areas.
Thanks for being here.
Julie