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LITERARY
FOCHRIW
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WIMBERRY PICKING

The news whispered around the village,
over garden gates, in shopping queues.
“They are ready for picking.”
Dad was working all week
Sunday was chapel.
You can’t pick wimberries, on Sunday.
But Saturday was a fine picking day.
With food prepared, we were tinned and jarred.
I was hungry at the top of the street,
Refused a sandwich, I sulked on ahead.
After climbing to the mountain top
We wrapped the food in our coats.
Mam opened the tin and took out our jars.
One with a bag of sweets
“Give some to your brother”, my sister was told,
“Remember, no eating, no stalks, no leaves,”
Dad showed us where to pick
As we bent over bushes, birds skydived above.
Mam viewed the valley floor.
 She guarded the food, tipped jars in the tin.
Then stalked the leaves we had missed.
Betrayed by blue lips, we all hung our heads.
“You won’t want any food” she said,
We proved her wrong when the picnic had gone.
Then slowly we made our way home.
Dad carried the bag as we dog legged down.
My sister had to help make the tart.
I had to wash and get out of the way
The annual event was done
Poems by  Gwyn Morgan