Sloes Poem by Vicki Feaver

He was in Paris for the weekend:
on his own - she was mad
to think otherwise.

She took the children
on an expedition with friends
to pick sloes - small bitter plums
from the spiky twigs
of the blackthorn; best picked
after the first frosts
have loosened the stones.

Her friends were going to soak them in gin
ready for Christmas.

She couldn't think that far.
She couldn't even think
as far as next weekend;
or the stallion, black as a sloe,
galloping above her
down a sloping field.