hightides

the garden has grown over. rows of metal stakes sit barren, tilted if you were here, I would ask - do you remember each spring those sagging, strained vines grazing the ground and all the varieties of reds that brightened the back of our yard? the sound of the doorbell, a cue to load up the bags, and the postman, your sister, my friends leaving, laden with a bounty and Mum heaping two kilos of them in a deep saucepan, bashed and dented from years of cooking for four, and they'd simmer for hours like time meant nothing our crop, we shared when there was so much