Issue 34. It's that time of Year

The house smells of autumn
This, the year the summer never came;
Not even the Indian sort.

I harvest the hard, bronzed
Conference pears
And the shiny, miniscule
Green tomatoes
I add deep purple plums
Golden stem ginger and
Garlic and red chillies
Tied in their little muslin bag.
Then finally, sliced Bramleys
And red-skinned onions.
They are all placed in my
Large preserving pan
And now look good enough to paint.

The ingredients for
Old Dowerhouse Chutney
Have created their own poetry
I am redundant.

It now bubbles and simmers away
The afternoon
Its rich aroma pervading

Each room of my home.
I inhale deeply and ask myself
Is this still my favourite season?