A tree beset with ladders bends and clicks;
Smoke hangs against a bracken-rusted hill
As fingers close on damsons’ powdered cheeks.
The students doze on buses back to town
Through warm fruit-flavoured dusk, their eyes now full
Of foliage and light blue dangling sacs
That stay stuck fast beneath the lids till dawn.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would
be pleased to hear from you.