Sour Grapes

Old Doctor Smith owned a brown shingled house which stood near a field of gold hay.

An orchard of trees, ladybugs, bumble bees leased the field for their summer displays.

The field was the Doc's but was open to us, 'cause we knew him e're since we were little.

But the most treasured part, when July days were hot, was the grape arbor right in the middle.

Lopsided and gray, a great place to play, her lattice all beaten and worn,

with benches all warped into sculptures of art by fury of New England storms.

Green gobs of grapes, not ripe yet to eat, enticed kids from arches above

Temptation held strong and the reach was not long to grab hold those bunches we loved.

No king was served a more royal feast than we ate those days in that arbor,

The prize we would post made mouths pucker most and made our eyes squint all the harder.

Tummy upsets were none and before day was done, Uncle Bob might bestow each a nickel.

Then off with a roar, down to Armand's great store, to purchase a green sour pickle.