The first cut

I think this is wonderful Shoe- such a fantastic picture though didn't quite understand " a handful of lines.."? Lines from the willow? Or old person lines? What ever I shall just let the whole poem mellow as it is. ;)Pia

So many beautiful images in this one, Shirley, a real poetic feast. Especially love: "Early; our feet left their shadows behind in the winter grass" And I have to commend you on the ingenius 'clitoris' simile. I've never seen it used in a poem before - yes, it is rather shocking, but you know what, it damn well works! One of the best poems I've read in a while, well done on the cherries! Magic xxx

Hello new shoe, such a powerful poem. I agree with Magic re the first two brilliant lines, and the unexpected explosion of 'clitoris' comes across quite well. Now write the sequel---The Second Cut. Best regards, Richard LP

A minor observation on a wonderful poem - in the last line it's should be its!

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Well done shoe. Takes me into a world completely unknown to me. Leaves a lovely trail of thoughts.

I love it, shoe. I'm not sure what the willow twigs were for, I assume they were for basket work or lobster/crab pots? The 'clitoris' metaphor is brilliant, by the way. And this - 'Sheaves of willow like so many arrows bundled in our arms.' - Lovely. I like the last stanza too. I'm ashamed to admit that though in my heart I'm still 27 I'm old enough to remember our black leaded coal fire range with the tiled oven and the hinged hook for the ever boiling kettle. As a kid I spent a lot of time round the Prices' house at the end of our street, they were recently settled Irish travelers. There was a huge iron pot over their fire that was never emptied, just topped up with a rabbit, a couple of wood pigeons, a few spuds or carrots, a cabbage and occasionally a handful of dried peas or pearl barley, and men, women and kids turned up to feed at regular intervals. That fire burned all year round, and the stew that came from its bowels, lapped up with chunks of crusty bread, was the food of the gods. The dark brown, bittersweet tea that the old lady gave us in enameled tin cups was boiled rather than brewed together with sugar and milk in a big old iron teapot - I can taste it now. Aah, memories.....

Catching up on reading - shoe, as ever, a unique perspective...great little poem, especially the last three lines.

Absolutely fantastic Shirley - fully deserving of cherries, poem otw and pod. :--) xxx