The Whinberry Pickers


Hands stained indigo
 and faces coloured amber
 with the sun
 coming down in slants.
 They crouch, piping calls from
 bush to bush,
 growing brave enough to beat
 a bumble bee to a patch of fruit.
 And shouts
 like scraps of paper
 echoing across the fell
 boasting of the fullest tub.
 And strangers dawdling past
 some with nodding heads and
 smiling mouths and knowing eyes.
 And some with faces full of question
 waiting to be told:
 “It’s whinberries for Grandma” ...



Rachel McGladdery



for information about Rachel McGladdey (and other Natterjack writers), click here




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