The Larder Poem by Vicki Feaver

Turned seventy, and not wanting
to waste the years left, half-asleep,
I'm stocking the shelves of a larder.

Each day is an empty jar to fill:
yesterday, with the silvery teeth
on a leaf-lichen; the day before,

with a thin mist rolling slowly
across the valley, fading a line
of beeches to pencilled ghosts.

Today it's the powdery bloom
on the skin of a blueberry;
turning it, cold from the fridge,

between my thumb and finger;
noting the petal-shaped crater
where the flower shrivelled,

a small hole where it was pulled
from the stalk, crushing
its tangy pulp on my tongue.