Dear mother,
With her hair thread through a scarf
And her face devoid of rouge,
Traipsing down the lonely lane
The hedgerows
With colourful hues.
Those leafy larders
Where she wandered wide
About to forage and plunder,
There before her a juicy sight
She came upon to ponder.
A place she spied
With countless fruits
The plumpest were the furthest away,
She rolled her sleeves up
Stretching high
Her brow folded in dismay.
With basket full and more to pick
She pulled the corners of her apron
Into a spacious pocket,
And there she slaved till it almost overflowed
Afraid to move in case she dropped it.
Strolling home with luscious thoughts
Of tarts and flans and pies
Covered in custard or ice cream cold
Guaranteed lots of visitors would arrive.
