‘ 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.