Hop-picking time; we all turned out

Bar those that were ailing and the working men.

Graded by size like Toby jugs;

Grown-ups clustered round high sacking bins,

The bigger children rimming Gran=s umbrella,

Upside-down, its shiny spike rammed tight into the ground.

Smallest of all, I had a special bin;

I picked the papery green flowers into Great-grandad=s hat.

Long years had shaped it to his head; it was brimful of him,

Seasoned by weather, time and garden bonfires.

I filled it full of hops, placing them one by one

With solemn care, counting them in.

>Must be nigh on a bushel there!= he said,

>That=s nearly filled the bin!=.

I was his helpmeet, sunshine, and his little maid.

>Be careful there!= he warned the Talleyman -

>Some special hops in there!  Don=t let >em get squashed.=

The hops were bushel-measured, tipped into pokes, taken to the oast,

>For to be dried,= said Grandad, >and make the beer taste good.

>Course, that=ll make a very special brew.= He winked.

Now, in his memory, I raise my glass,

Drink deeply, savour the summer-toasted, slow-dried hops,

And taste a full, sweet after-tang of kindliness and pipe baccy,

Strawberries and dahlias, and wood-smoked trilby hat.