The hops are ripe.

Pale green, pollenful, they hang behind the leaves and smell of sleep.

Clustered on bines whose tops are in the sky.

Taller than Jack's beanstalk, magical.

They don't fall when the strings are cut; the men must hang on them and pull.

Then they come down fighting, spitting dewdrops,

beetles, caterpillars flying before their time, and broken leaves.

They writhe and slither down the sky, hissing and scratching, before they hit the ground.

We hoist them up across the bins and start to pick, sociable, chatty.

'Mind them leaves. We don't want none of them.

Fancy a brew of tea? Bit of cake, yel? Goo on! That's all good stuff in there.'

We taste the pollen, bitter on our blackened hands

The day drifts by, spiced with yellow dust.

Children slip away to raid the hedge for unripe fruits and nuts,

the streams for slippery elusive fish.

The talleyman calls, 'Hops ready!'