This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…
Seasons
There were rich pickings in the hedgerows then,
Where the blackberries crowded out the sloe
And hop vines twined about the wild rosehips
And hawthorn berries cast a scarlet glow.
To the music of birdsong we would pick
Our fill throughout the season; then the mist
of autumn would sparkle like jewels, from
Cobwebs flung down with a prodigal fist.
On branches where the fruit had lately been,
And through the winter, feasting on the good
Rich harvest of the summer, round fires of logs,
Pale summer ghosts curled from the smould’ring wood.
© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards
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