In Uncategorized | By Fogo Island Inn | August 28, 2017
The Berry Pickers by Al Pittman
Many a day we climbed
beyond the last hay-mown meadow
up the rock strewn face
where the Burnt Hills dipped
to meet the peopled valley
and as we groped our well known way
toward the summit of the first rise
to where the way was worn
and the travelin’ easy
we could see
through sun-squinted eyes
(where the trail opened above us
here and there
to give the climbers their bearings)
the white flour sacks
wrapped around sun-stroked heads
there were others ahead of us
but no worry
we had our spot
and they had theirs
where the squash berries green and firm
were waiting to be picked
by counted cupfuls
and dumped into Cream of the West bags
to be toted home to the kitchen cupboard
to ripen
or to be sold at doors
for 50 cents a gallon
Al Pittman
