‘Season of mists
and yellow fruitfulness...’
And of blackberries,
the caviar of hedgerows;
September’s the time,
when the hours
between sun and shade
get more pressing.
Our plastic bowls
set down on dew-soaked
grass; wasps grow drowsy.
No more the need
to fight them off
as, tipsy, they gorge,
fit to bust.
The berries yield
to our touch – rich,
ripe, and shouting
to be picked – joining
mouth, teeth and tongue
in succulent oneness.
On tiptoe we sieve
through a criss-cross
of twigs – tangled
like mermaids’ tresses...
Branches stripped bare,
looking on through
to a fathomless blue.
And, for a moment,
our minds are emptied
of all others but this...
right here, right now;
how red are your lips,
and how sweet is
our blackberry wine
in its consummation.
