For HB – a small poem about harvest ( Don’t ever doubt it)

I see you, in my mind’s eye,

as the rail skimming miles slide by.

You are peeling apples

in our kitchen,

two ageing, worsted cook books,

flour dusted, unflustered

by your side.

Chunking, slicing, chutney dicing.

Slooshing, whooshing, liquid reducing.

And that, which cannot be denied?

You’re the jam, the jelly roll, adoration preserved.

The unadulterated, unreserved,

honeyed, sugar coated,

butter bested.

The core – I’m sure,

and yet, by me : surely undeserved?

The bowl of cherries and more.

Ever the apple of my eye.

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