Windstorm blowing through suspending the days Irish summer ending I shiver at the darkness spreading the white wisp morphing into black cloak
The fig tree stands branches wild new sprouts shaking second season raspberries crushed on the wall the tomato vine falls heavily to the ground
Sprigs jerking I sway trunk holding fast until it fractures I collapse and the fruits splatter sap leaking I wipe my cheeks flustered by my syrupy hands I stare
a sound a shout I straighten the burgeons call
Storm Ellen, pandemic and bad news. The burgeons are my children.