Falling plums.

I would sit for hours
Squelching the stones to
A deepness.
The birds had taken their chew
Yellow beaked blood stained .
It was difficult finding a clearing
To be comfortable.

I disliked the plum falling season.
The paving stones dirtied.
No one collected them
Always too few
Yet I remember the word Damson
In a labelled jam jar
Stiff and sticky on a larder shelf.

Love Mary Kearns