Picking berries - a rural chore
and one few people do deplore.
But not many children can taste,
though they'd collect with childish haste.
I myself have had the pleasure
of eating the best by measure.
As a boy I picked for the feast,
rummaging through - a hungry beast.
As years went by, the berries grew
and all I did was pick and chew
and taste the thick, sweet goodness,
licking fingers to cleanliness.
As close to clean as could be found,
when hoarding red dye off the ground.
And as I scrounge through all the thorns,
I'm attacked by these plants with horns.
And now I simply cannot tell:
if the red is the red of hell,
if my digits are smeared in blood,
if it's pain or a joyful flood
cascading from my youthful eyes.
I now fear this yearly surprise.
And when mother hands me a tub,
I shiver like a drowning cub.
For I have come to realise
a chore is set to penalise.
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Author:
PoetBoy (
Offline) - Published: November 28th, 2016 14:00
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 33
Offline)
Comments3
I like how you picked your choice of words.☺️
Great write. Being from a farm I always enjoyed picking berries. A lot of fun that was
Man I was confused by your name for a second! Nice choice and nice poem!
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