Stubb Earle’s got his strawberries again in Eden so we packed the freezer full of the perfect fruit, each small ruby bursting its sparks of sugar tart sweet, crimson blood juices over hands and faces.
The baby is soaked in rosy dribbles and laughing for more with joyful shrieks of strawbabies.
I peel away a smashed stray lost in the rapturous abundance which has left its electric red stain on my leg.
“It’s the lightning that does it,” Stubb exclaimed one year, talking about something else but saying it all.
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