Picking Strawberries

In the summer we went to a farm that grows red, ripe strawberries.
There was a sign, and in a field low plants spread ripe strawberries

in rows and rows, waiting to play hide and seek under green leaves,
ready to be picked. Resting in their straw bed, ripe strawberries

shone like candy, full of rain and sun, perfect for pudding.
‘One for me, one for Raggy Lion,’ I said, ripe strawberries

soft and sweet and juicy in my mouth, ‘I’ll eat Raggy Lion’s for him.’
Mum said, ‘Put some in your punnet instead,’ ripe strawberries

oozing stickily down my chin. ‘One for Hugo’s punnet,’ I said.
Happiness, I thought while eating, is being fed ripe strawberries.