blackberries, 2019

     we have come out early

this year and

before the heat of the day

have stretched legs up the hill

to Carr Wood

     the blackberries

in thick clusters

hang from vines, still cradled away

in bush tops

hoist in bindweed canopies

behind barbed brambles

and stealthy nettles

smirking beneath a green palace 

an angry salad of leaves

     for we are the first

this year

to assault this harvest

to marvel at the crop

the dropping wealth

of sunblessed flesh that

slips between fingers

and into our mouths

a flood of perfumed berry blood

as our tongues

press to mash

these precious clots

     and we pick

in silence

mostly

the girl and I

cast in memories and thoughts

of other years

and when we speak

we talk again

of hedgewitch

of rosehip, sloe and haw

of lost recipes

folklore

and ancestors

and on the brambles' thorns

we swear a tacit blood pact

that should we never again

do this together

we will always have done it

today

     but you

have stayed behind

despite our invitation

because it was not in your plan

for the morning

or you found some other hesitation

that held you home

     we are disappointed

and relieved

for this harvesting

has become our thing

we forage for links that bind us

and we find them

in the gathering

of this rich fruit