The brilliant sun of passion is dissolved into the tender mists of love.
The starlings sweep and knot and sweep again, skirmishing their twilight roost.
My jam-packed larder's pregnant shelves of gooseberry, strawberry, plum,
All jammed in jars, so round and fat and good,
A jar I've made for every week the year to come.
Sloe gin was slow picking, in the autumn haze
We wandered down the lane of life,
Sloe gin to lick our tongues around and blink our eyes, you stoke the fire tonight.
The beets are pack in sand, potatoes clamped,
Onions put to strings of red and white to hang,
All good things, waiting their appointed time.
Your strong arms and my deft fingers have this harvest made.
Tibs the cat looks smug and licks her creamy face.
The swelling of my belly's curve my fingers gently trace.
October 2006
Mary Argent copyright