Harvest

we plucked the last of the Elstars this morning

the grass was white with hoar

the apples bloomed with frost

birds had tasted seven or eight

of the larger fruits

I plucked them all

rolled a few of the baby ones

cross the lawn

to the delight of the dogs

coco and teddy

teddy

so brave for a little one

and later that evening had dared a stick

an apple found its way into a sumptuous melon and banana salad

the raspberries we had hoped for

all the way from Spain

were tainted with sell by mould

and we dared not risk our fragile health

and so the tart earth of raspberries

would wait until another harvest

home grown

in the light

of political decay

the last Elstars gleam in a woven wicker tray

their crisp taste

enticing

lingering

summer fruit of the lowland

rolling

across

the frost lawns of our lowland