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Buried gold

Gold nuggets among the moss

Gold nuggets among the moss

The year is at its full.
Half an eye on harvest
The equinox weeks gone, but this is the midpoint.
The pastures are heavy with seed but still uncut.
Ox eye daisies and buttercups pattern the green
while clover still honeys the air.
The last iris brightens the pond margin.
Fledgings struggle upwards on stubby wings
to clumsy perches.
.
This evening I take a bag and knife through the trees with the Nog.
I know that cities of chanterelles border the path,
fluted, architectural, golden.
If I cut them, not pull them, they will return year on year.
I will cook them with butter and garlic,
same as we did as kids adventuring along the mossy burnsides
and among pine roots,
in fire blackened heavy iron pots.
I am looking forward to this meal,
seasoned with the past.

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