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In my tenth year, it became my custom
on Saturday mornings,
to take a willow basket, cross the road
and climb over the stile in the hawthorn hedge
into rosy sunrise, or heavy clouded morning.

I trod among the bending, dew-hung grasses
solemn in the steps my canvas slippers made.
I soon knew where the tell-tale rings would be
grass in circles darker than the grass it grew among.
In this meadow they always seemed to be
close to bramble groves, under knobby oaks.
And once found, the fairly-rings were secrets to be hoarded.

On those mornings, my round basket would soon be filled
with mushrooms, I heeded Granddad’s warning.
They must be picked before the sun could touch them
or they’d be food for worms.
I left enough at home for Mother to cook,
then hurried off to town, Aunt Flo’s house.
She fried them in an old iron pan, served them on pink plates,
then she and I, and snowy-haired Aunt Audrey
ate them, laughing at the butter dribbling down our chins.