The crops are being gathered in, root vegetables from cold earth
Pickles are being made - you reap what you sow.
The baker madly gathers his flour for what he is worth
pounding and kneading his early morning dough.

He rests wearily for a tea break in the shade
Keeping an eye on his ever rising bread.
Fit for the ultimate preserve - marmalade
his tongue licks his lips thinking of the spread.

He rests where the leaves entwine with the mauve
Lemons hanging in the sunshine - there is a lot
The oranges ripening in the cool of the grove
His hands are tired and he cares not a jot.

He can smell the fruit simmering in the copper pan
The sugar preserving the taste of the cherry
It is then poured into hot glass jars and labelled "jam"
Placed onto the shelf with every other kind of berry.