My crooked driving arm takes the brunt

of the sun’s force         on an endless stretch

of grey freeway that’s non-descript

except for the rush of metallic four-wheel

beasts that it    herds away from an outing

in the country. At the Pick Your Own,

we swarmed like aphids on verdant forbs

that drooped heavy with clusters of ruby-ripe
fruit with crystalline gems of tepid rain

collected on saw-toothed leaves.         Be gentle

I warned as greedy fingers plucked, stained

scarlet with evidence of rough handling,

as mouths sweetened and lips tinged; they

were watched by inscrutable yellow seed-eyes.

We placed all that was unbruised

in recycled ice-cream tubs, filled the boot.	
We inhale now, their slow, sad fermentation

all the long voyage home, our treasure

bleeding-out, the breath of it sick with sugar

and hovering above the dash. Never mind

I say, dusk at last settled on my seared arm,

we’ll hull what’s left, corrupt the crimson

flesh with pectin, watch it billow pink cloud,

smear its viscous ghost on wholemeal toast.