Sally E. I really like these two poems. The biberries are out near me and
there were lots this year. I too love the simple life that this poem
encapsulates. The innocence of picking the fruit to make the pies jam and
wine. I still have demi johns of rose hip wine my husband made. The poem is
almost like a ballad captures the country air. You have caught the colours
well too and the way they hide under the leaves.
The poem The shape of trees is lovely too and I can just imagine how it must
be up there in Callender. We used to go camping near there when the children
were young. Sally J

>From: Sally Evans <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: Blaeberries, and Mist II revised to The Shapes of Trees
>Date: Sun, 11 Jan 2004 13:34:19 +0000
>
> >This is the new one, with below, the revision of Mist II with thanks for
>all
>the ideas. Some of you probably call blaeberries bilberries.
>
>
> > Let's go pick blaeberries
> >
> > Let's go pick blaeberries again,
> > strong, dark, sweet blaeberries
> >
> > that lie in lairs
> > as though they understand
> > the country's dangerous.
> >
> > They hide dark wine-blue hue
> > among mild red-green leaves,
> > on slopes that stalk the sun.
> >
> > Let's spend an hour or so
> > pretending we live like this
> > always, provisioning
> >
> > this fruit we breakfast on,
> > freeze down, consume as pies,
> >
> > juice thickened by heat,
> > sweetened with honey.
> >
> > Let's go pick blaeberries, shy
> > on high braes of July,
> > blaeberries, earthy,
> >
> > Let's go pick blaeberries.
> > Let's go seek, let's go early.
> >
> > Sally Evans
> >
> >
>
>  The Shapes of Trees
> >
> > Here comes the mist,
> > sweeping through the trees,
> > whitening summer dawn.
> >
> > Shapes of poplar,
> > chestnut, a grove of oaks
> > succumb to its swirl.
> >
> > Blankness envelopes me,
> > as this mist teases me,
> > curled as a simile,
> >
> > the faint outline
> > of each tree
> > like one of its leaves -
> >
> > until it rolls away,
> > white revealing green.
> > Colour grows into morning.
> >
> > Mist of memory, from which
> > the woodland shapes
> > come back to me,
> >
> > it clings to secrets
> > till dawn's slant sun
> > clothes them in roselight
> >
> > - each branch, every tree -
> > a drifting boundary
> > beyond whose blind I see.
> >
> > Sally Evans
> >
> >

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