The broad beans, which I neglected to stake this year, are floppy and their stems broken. Despite my lack of attention they are prolific. Too many friends have received the dubious gift of a bag of the delicious, arduous gems.
I slipped a juicy segment into my mouth. The juice exploded into my mouth: Honey-sweet and tart. Lush. My tongue and teeth popped the little sacks of liquid. In my mind’s eye a crowd of Californian surfers stood on their boards and cheered in unison. I glanced down to pick up another segment.
Imagine a mild chilli and some unspecified summer fruit (maybe a mango, many a tangy apple) had a burnt umber, love-child.
For the last few weeks I’ve been alternately avoiding the garden and clearing out the last of the summer crops.
The tomatoes, have mostly moved beyond ripe. They hang, insect stung and half rotten, half dried on the vines. A few runty green fruit droop at the centre of the plants. Some of the leaves have completely dried and hover in amongst their wilted brethren like dusty, netting underskirts.