Sour Grapes

Shady Lane by the Keeper's Lodge,
a cool green tunnel - just the odd
speckle of sunshine on the tar.
Climb a gate or a bank you could
see the sky meet fields or sea.

Three of us strolled along swinging
ash sticks and pulling grassy stalks
to chew the sugary inside bit.
Bren - his eyes could see colours
under birds' wings - spotted an elder
tree in a grassy patch in off the
road.

Like bunches of grapes - a couple
of moments and tugs left three Roman
reclining nobles lying on the grass,
bunches of berries aloft above mouths,
little fingers outstreched as only
the best Romans would do of course.

A few laughed tight purple bunches later
who should march by likety clip in
black suit white collar 'n grey white
hair but Brother Fergus. He didn't
miss a stride just marched on throwing
"oh they're deadly poison, deadly poison"
from the corner of his smoker's teeth.