A sloe day

Sloe Gin by Seamus Heaney 

The clear weather of juniper
darkened into winter.
She fed gin to sloes
and sealed the glass container.

When I unscrewed it
I smelled the disturbed
tart stillness of a bush
rising through the pantry.

When I poured it
it had a cutting edge
and flamed
like Betelguese.

I drink to you
in smoke-mirled, blue-black
polished sloes, savage
and reliable.


I don't make the gin any more: More often than not I prefer to savour the words than the spirit but the fruit (not berries!) never fails to flash a blue light for the changing season.
( And now I'm wondering, did he really mispell Betelgeuse?)