Gathering crabapples like we do,
shaking the tree and letting what fall will
waken something in the wood
that watches and takes when the need is shown:
bruised knees of boys climbing the boughs,
girls’ full aprons gathering in
scattered fruit for baskets
home to make the pippins ready to cook.
Now it is all for show, to learn
that we are not bagged and trucked to shops,
that stores are kept by men not banks,
jars are capped by hand, signed with a pen
not the proposition of a brand,
something true, a jelly of the land.
Considering all that needs to be done, the least
must be crabapple jelly: the sour fruit
and sugar boiled and dripped overnight,
a sprig of sorrell in the pan suggesting
lemon juice. What’s the use, you ask?
Until the eve of Imbolc when you pop
the lid and feel the summer sun warm
in the golden glow and sweetness on your tongue
and once again believe the flame might live
forever, that Bridget’s art might fire the hearth
another year to make us tools and hands
to stir the pan preserving what is good
and flavouring our food with what we need.
George Roberts
12/09/2015
rWorld2 