Fieldfare and Sloe Gin

a lightly frosted grape-skin bloom

sits powdery silver on the grass,

peckish fieldfare, driven off the fens

by today’s rapier chill

stand muttering as old fellows

waiting for the pub,

reluctantly the garage door squeals

its rusty winter complaint

and emits a draughty shudder

as I roll it back,

it’s time to wake the drowsy sloes

gin-slumbering on the darkest shelf

stow Christmas baubles for another year

clean old tools, sort sundry nuts and bolts

but Jack Frost’s needling pinch

swiftly chokes my departing zeal, and

turning wistfully, with one last apologetic glance

I beat retreat until the Spring

with books, red wine and roaring fires

Published by grahamrsherwood