Prickly scarlet kisses dangle dangerously over the water butt.
I am tasked with taming them.
Surgical precision cuts with cold steel
Leave a pile of thorns and blushes at my feet.
The brightest are to keep,
Those mellowing to a fire orange
Can be raised to the mouth,
Sucked out from the back end,
Sweet paste full of spiky fizz
And then fire the seeds, like buck shot,
Back into the hedge.
Those darkening to crimson brown are given as offerings
To Roland and his whiskery friends.
schnark.home.blog 
This is lovely! I was right there with you, seeing the branches fall and the glow of the berries. I hope you don’t
have many Rolands’ waiting for their share.
Gwen.
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Thank youGwen,
I follow a sailing chat forum where one member recently complained about birds, describing them as flying crapping things, he was rightly told off! And a host of pictures ensued of notable bird sightings, some exotic and some less so, even a racing pigeon who hitched a lift to Holland.
There is so little wildlife in our country that Roland is always welcome on our plot, although we prefer him to keep social distance!
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You are so right. There are waterways vehicles up on the path to the river and I watch them with great
trepidation. Are they just cleaning the side of the very small river or are they up to no good? I was so
glad to hear the dreadful person was told off! I love your poem. It’s so clean and so honest and paints
an immediate picture. Thank you.
Gwen.
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