March 2026
The Fruit Grower
I never see her come or go.
Sometimes it is an hour before I know
she is there.
Among the careful rows of obedient veg
waiting to be picked, like children for a game,
hers is the wild place.
She wears a hat that once has been
‘a picture hat’, my mother would have said.
She wears three cardies, and a flowery frock.
I never see her come or go, but once
I glimpsed her fading into the darkening grass,
laden with fruit-full carrier bags.
I never heard her speak but once,
a quiet and distant voice
‘I make jam’ she said.
October comes, she vanishes,
leaving her bushes stripped, disconsolate.
They grieve her the winter through,
mixing their tears with rain.
February is dead and biting cold,
and suddenly she is there again,
wreathed in smoke,
a wraith among her pruning fires,
warming the earth for spring.