Chanterelles Poem by Sally Evans

for Larry Butler

A slight smirr of rain.
blows on and off as weather trails
among the central Scotland hills.

The poet whose tent is pitched
beneath the apple trees, is out at dawn,
crossing woods and water, slopes and rock.

Early creatures, wildfowl, siskin, jay,
red deer and roe deer, red squirrel.
Then he sees this gold, apricot scented.

No one else to claim it
he picks it, carries it in cloth
down to the Kirk Hall kitchen

where two poets converse in Gaelic,
three from Chester, two from Devon, listen
and the poetry and jazz winds down.

He asks for garlic, butter, oil, .
With all the proper instruments
he improvises chanterelles for lunch.