Jam

I remember,
stilted on a wooden stool
watching blackberries,
picked on Grandad's rambles
over sand dunes,
bubble in their sugary stew.

Poured out into clean jars
standing like soldiers
in a bowl of warm water
to keep glass from cracking.

Sealed with grease proof paper
and an elastic band,
labelled and dated,
left to set on a shelf
in Grandma's pantry.

My fondest memories
lie hidden in jam jars