I like to go in the morning and eat my breakfast there.
I also like to go in the evening and get some more for my evening snack.
We all like to go and watch Bono Baby explore.
He always comes home with blackberry juice smudges all over his pretty white fur.
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate the first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking, Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat grey fungus, glutting on our cache
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying, it wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelled of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
I wish I could sneak some blackberries to all of you. Actually, I wish I could come drop by your house and ask you to go on a walk with me to Blackberry Hill. I'm sure we would have the most fun chatting away and talking about how adorable Bono Baby is. I bet we wouldn't take many berries home with us. I always eat too many of them and my bucket never gets very full.
Happy Tuesday Dear Friends