the last blackberries

am out too late again this year and all that’s left

are gritty on the vine, some bleeding under

clumsy thumbs, some bullet red, some green

some sourly shaded from the autumn sun

I pick a handful, two, just for the sake

of other more refulgent times and roll

them in this optimistic tub, where bruising stains

cloud plastic sides and maggots mouth their fill

more berries here but just at dog piss height

so left by others and by me and those

above protected by tall grey nettle shoots

that catch the fingers as the hand withdraws

then through the wood to see the tree that once

I fancied held my mother’s breath in sun,

where once I stood my hand held still against

the bark, and dumbly wept her loss again – again