Late August

 

Heavy rain, sun's heat tangled days,

Blackberries swelled, mysterious as bruises.

First one, a glossy knot,

Deep purple in a crowd of red and green, stubborn as stones.

Devouring the first, tart and rich,

Thick wine in summer's heartache,

Mouth stained, craving ignited,

Drawing us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots.

Briars clawed and grass sobbed at our boots.

Through hayfields, cornrows, potato drills,

We foraged till the cans sang with fullness,

Green clusters hidden beneath, dark globes peering

Like a conspirator’s eyes. Our hands tattooed

With thorn pricks, fingers sticky, Bluebeard’s guilt.

We stashed the berries in the barn,

Only to find a rat-grey curse, fungus glutted,

Their juice soured, reeking death.

Plucked from their shrubby altar,

Transformation soured the summer’s gift.

Tears pooled, fairness mocked,

Those gleaming canfuls condemned to rot.

Hope returned each year, knowing it lied.