"sloes" poems
Hot chestnuts warming in their skin
Wild cherries for the brandy and sloes for the gin
Bramley apples and blackberries stewing together
Halls decked with bouquets of dried heather.
Deep dark red petals from the English rose
Pineapple mint food where the rosemary grows.
Oranges and lemons added for extra taste
Walnuts for the cake and almonds for the paste.
October’s pumpkins glowing bright
Apples dripping with toffee for bonfire night.
But waiting for the polished conkers to fall
Makes autumn the best season of them all.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
THE TASTE OF AUTUMN
Hot chestnuts warming in their skin
Wild cherries for the brandy and sloes for the gin
Bramley apples and blackberries stewing together
Halls decked with bouquets of dried heather.
Deep dark red petals from the English rose
Pineapple mint food where the rosemary grows.
Oranges and lemons added for extra taste
Walnuts for the cake and almonds for the paste.
October’s pumpkins glowing bright
Apples dripping with toffee for bonfire night.
But waiting for the polished conkers to fall
Makes autumn the best season of them all.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
I
They have a dusty coating
You can rub away with a finger’s pad
Leaving a small inky-skinned
Plum, wild, of dark blue hue
Found in hedgerows where
The blackthorn grows:
The sloe.
Pick in September
October even,
Its colour seemingly so at odds
With Autumn’s trends
Of brown and orange, red and gold
This prunus spinosa (or so it goes):
The sloe.
II
How this photo’s colours
spell autumn this dull
rain-threatening day we walked
almost empty fields so I could
crunch the stubbled wheat
and you might pocket sloes
to halt you said
that earnest kiss
or passion-promising
hug against the gate.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
I take Rowan to pick blackberries.
I knew where they’d be
Up through the allotments beyond the windmill,
brambles hanging heavy in the sunshine
We each carry
what we could find in the kitchen:
me a jug, he a plastic box. He clutches
it to his chest with both hands,
stepping carefully over cracks in the pavement.
Here then,
The clutches of fruit perch
like children sitting on a gate.
Rosehips and sloes peep yet
through the leaves, biding their time.
I say,
look at the colours.
Green then red and then
finally
shiny, glowing,
deepest purple.
And oh how the fattest fall just so
into your hand,
as if they have been waiting
Soft bubbles bursting with juice
Our fingers and chins
turn pink
I give him the biggest and sweetest.
I like the **** ones, sharp as a high summer sky.
The evening sun sends our shadows on and on
As I stop to watch him he grows,
transforming
right in front of me, long fingers and a wide wide grin, daisy faced, I must tilt
My head to meet his eye.
Now his hands find
the furthest blackberries
just
beyond
my reach.
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 12:23 PM UTC
I:
I stopped for breath;
It was earthy, the soil
Was putrid to the touch:
Death oozed out of the cracks
Of the river, bubbling unnaturally.
Life was naught where I roamed.
Squeezing the last drops out of the bottle,
My cracked lips groaned, the silence strangled my memory
Only the weak were erased that day.
Four years ago I think
She ruled herself with a spring in her step
Before the sludge, the acid sludge
Wiped her dreams away
And ushered in the sun of winter
To never see summer again.
II:
Speckled with dust I carried onward;
The terrain flashed with familiarity
As I stepped into the darkness of her home
If you can even call it that anymore;
Her smile is a deep crimson, the blood of the many
Line her barren wasteland. Sometimes I face the winds
Instead of hiding; but they bring those hollow, pale spirits
Ever closer. They only stop
To torment; their whispers perfectly pierce
And destroy the hope I once had.
III:
They tell me sweet nothings and extend their hands of absence;
I cower in the darkness to stop their screams.
The scimitar of radiant light cuts through the night
As I prepare to face the wasteland again.
Swallows, sloes and willows; gone are the days where
They lined the earth and made it smell whole again.
Now we lay motionless in dreams long lost
Lonesome as I was, the ghosts haunt where I once were.
IIII:
The path in front of me winds endlessly;
Shattered and incomplete, it beckons me
To wherever it decides to take me.
For I am naught in the wasteland;
I will wait for her to come back
But the sands of time are not on my side.
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 7:00 AM UTC
Is it really considered high treason
In this lovely food gathering season
To not collect the sloes in
to make lovely Christmas gin
I could not think of a better reason.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
I don't expect good God almighty to take a flight down to see me,
but when the Devil is in me
it might help.
In his stellar capacity as the star that should guide me
I think he's falling down on the job.
You may say it's my duty absolutely to furnish my days with goodness and light,
but if that's right and I'm not saying it's not what else
has the almighty to do?
I might be new to this game of naming the name I must talk to, but god must know who this man is that I am.
If you anoint me and then disappointment me the door's always open in the other place
and that's where'll I go if you don't want to show me your face.
So I'll have breakfast and bide a wee and get comfy and wider see how it goes
a slothful of sloes and the gin flows.
I hope you'll get on a plane or just materialise
all the same I expect you to be here for lunch.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 6:36 AM UTC