Sloe Seller Dor

I see her in
my mind as
easily as I saw
her at the
fair last fall.

Green and brown
dress, leather apron
bedecked with the
same purple-black as
her fingers.

She is standing
among the tables and
makeshift shelving that
fills most of the
space in the brightly
coloured pavilion serving
as her shop.

She has bottles
everywhere. Some are
empty, but most are filled to
some degree by
berries and gin
or by berry-tinged
gin waiting to be
strained pure.

And the tinkle of
dangling silver forks in
the late-autumn breeze
mixes with the soft
music of her voice
as she offers up
her wares.