In its velvet skin
Hidden below
Sits the Fairy
Of the sloe.
A sprinkling of dust
Surrounds a bitter taste
The blackthorn, as it’s known
The fairies make haste
The rush of the traffic
In the Autumn haze
A steady sour drip
On sunny cool days.
As the sugar sweetens
The dark romantic skin
To enrich the tables at Christmas
With rich sloe gin.