Blackberry picking

by Harry

Submitted by sianmarged

.

Summer, and succulent berries
droop
in clusters of black
and red

(They transport me to warm days In Wales when
as a child I, bear-like,
forage along steep brambled banks.)

Long before the devil’s spit of St, Michaelmas,
drupelets entice me
to gently touch, tug and then taste their sweet
juice,
but I resist their beckoning
until
armed with cane and bowl
I brace myself for battle–for no self-respecting blackberry
Surrenders gracefully.

High above, orbs resplendent in the sun’s rays
sway safely out of reach;
while others nestle
out of sight
under
five-leafed
foliage.

Those close by
flaunt their ripeness
And beg me to pick them–carefully; yet
no matter how cautiously my hand reaches in,
an unforgiving thorn stabs my finger,
And as I hastily withdraw, barbed vines
with cunning and merciless precision
claw my wrist.
Gotcha!

Droplets of blood flow down to palms already purple-stained
And like Lady Macbeth I wonder:
will these hands ne’er be clean?

Yet I enjoy this annual tradition.
Summer is here,
fruit is abundant,
and I shall create a pie for friends to savour.

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