Maria

We walked together,
I the younger by a generation,
And when I thought you would falter
In flimsy slip-ons there was not
The slightest indecision.
I on the other hand reached out
Three points on the rock, to steady myself,
Even though my boots were good.
And despite your bottle-bottom spectacles
You found on the hillside
Perfect specimens of wild vegetables
That I would have called grass,
Even then with my good eyes
I couldn't lay my hands on the same,
Besides, all around were prickles,
But your skin never felt them.
Neither could I make that regular tearing sound
Like sheep pulling at roots.
You were well practised at grazing,
If it hadn't been for your cardigan and skirt
And knee length stockings
(I can hardly call them pop-socks here),
I could have easily mistaken you for an animal
Bent head down amongst the shrubs and thistles.
The real give away was the plastic bag
That no self respecting 'Horta Picker'
Would be without (and very seldom is),
I didn't have one (and probably never will).
Then, after, there were green weeds
All over your kitchen floor
As you plucked at dead bits
And rooty bits
And bits of the wrong stuff.
The good went on the table ready for the pot,
It took us half a day (very pleasant mind)
To provide a dish of horta for the family,
Who grunted as they sat at the table
Forking it, like famers making hay,
Into heads two inches from the bowl,
Oil dribbling off chins.

Horta is Greek for wild greens.