Blackberries

September rolled in on the back of a blue supermoon,
sweetness tinged with grief. A page I was not quite ready
to turn. Summer’s green, dripping leaves began their slow
fade to mellow ochre, honey and gold, and in the peace of
an empty house I made tea and went down to the back field.
First alone time in weeks. The hedgerows were heavy with fruit:
coral-red haws, beady black elderberries and blackberries
by the fistful. Wild abundance. I didn’t go berry-picking with
the kids this summer, I berated myself. Had I given enough,
done enough? Would life provide for them when I could not?
I felt their childhoods slipping through my fingers like
spider’s silk. I gathered blackberries alone, taking time
to pick the fullest, darkest, juiciest fruits, gorging my eyes
as well as my mouth until my fingers were purple and I felt
belly-full of the field’s magic. The long grass was speckled
with bird’s foot trefoil and marshmallow, blackthorn and
bramble reclaiming space; sloes, damsons, ruby rosehips,
more berries than I could ever eat. Goldfinches feasting
on the teasels. Plenty, came the field’s reply. Plenty, plenty.

This poem was originally published in Scribe, September 2023

Thank you, as always, for reading 💜