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… Read more