She bends back over the bush,
pursed hand biting for curvature
among the green, and rains
three more to the tub at her feet.
Then she finds a last one, hunches,
lifts and rattles her find, is gone
inside. A tractor’s been pacing
the field next door all morning,
towards, back, towards, back.
She went unnoticed, unnoticing.
And we’ll have gooseberry tart –
as tart as her love, its stout fruit
as coarse and hard to sense, when
hidden and wasting in its thicket.