Cukes
No bigger than the finger of an infant
With a slight, arthritic crook and
Prickly emerald skin
Withered blossoms clinging to ends
Like the stuff of an afterbirth
A quick wash, ridding them of soil and spikes
Trim off the tips and
Nestle them into pints
Amongst fragrant dill sprigs and garlic cloves
Water, vinegar, sugar, salt
An acute, pungent nose
Poured through the funnel and
Filling the empty spaces
Baby dills in a glassy womb
Enveloped in briny waters
Fingertip tight
Lidded jars into the canner
Just to a boil
Grasped with wide tongs and
Lifted from the steaming bath
Set on the old board to cool
Tink... tink... tink...
Carted to the cellar to cure
Readying for special feasts
When they will be birthed into small, footed dishes and
Speared with a pearl-handled mini fork
Piled like little logs by eager little fingers
Onto dinner plates
They were her favourite, they were
She picked them up with withered, bent fingers
Savoured the delicate crunch
A star in her eye.
That light has gone out now and
This year she won't eat a one
