The undersides of chanterelles—orange-gold gills—tell

that these ones are good to eat, won’t hurt anyone.

Around the island, we bring damp parcels: to Tommo

who caught us a fish (mackerel to crackle stove-top)

and (along with a gleaming jam) to Drew, because

he let us pick his gooseberries, and a Tupperware

for the neighbor in case she’s annoyed we’ve stayed

too long. Every stop is far from the next one, the sea

shining as we drive, and I learn that these errands

are called doing your messages, and each gold trumpet

does speak from its stem: hello, or thank you or will you

help me if one day I am alone.