I gather the last tomatoes
a few hanging stubbornly green,
there’s place on the sunny sill
where they can take their chance.
As I harvest, a golden blizzard
pulses, swirling around my boots,
broad leaves intersperse the slim
in a chaotic unfathomable kaleidoscope
shackling my shins
some getting caught in my hatband.
Here, in this mesmeric cauldron
there is a gentle but primeval ferocity, where
I fear I could become lost, hidden from view
my skin turned to bark, blood to sap
limbs to boughs in final rest
between the damson, apple and the gauge
© Graham Sherwood 10/2018
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 
our tomatoes are still going strong but I had to buy a cucumber the other day. I’ve made green tomato chutney before but no-one liked it so never again. Harvest time, the turn into autumn, lighting the first fire in the woodburner – all special moments in the yearly calendar focusing our minds on the passing seasons and how one day we will become one with the soil. Lots to take from this lovely poem Graham.
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