Content

They come of age by late September

After a whole season’s work,

Soft and sweet and scarlet.

We sift through the ninety-yard run

Finding the fruit like stones amongst their withered shoots.

And we roll them into bins and count them for the market.

We cleave them to chunks with field knives,

And pass them round the back of the truck

And eat them off the rines

Spreading their white stony seeds by the headlands,

The juices streaming down our arms.

We eat in silence,

Resting our weary limbs as the shadows extend across the field

And the rosy light combs through the treetops,

Content.