Blackberry-picking

Summer is on the wane and harvest is on the rise;

Nights shorten, hinting of coziness and fire,

And pumpkins and their

Glowing orange spiciness.

My father's garden is bursting

With produce and the snaking prickles

Of the blackberry bushes bully

Through the foliage and flowers:

"Look at me!" they say,

"I am here too!" But they hurt

And scratch and are ignored

Like irritating friends

Until now.

Now, they have something to offer,

A sensual experience.

Bulbous, juicy bumps, joined

In a ball; little tufts of hair

Between each mound, fecund and plump.

Their blackness is their attractiveness,

A dark signal, to be plucked;

Once avoided, the dark orbs,

Draw the hand into the briar

Glistening, tempting with their dew sparkles,

Like deeply discovered jewels.

They are worth the snag of injury

From the grasping tendrils of their keeper.

As I gather, I philosophise:

Life is like a bramble thicket,

Prickly, seemingly impenetrable,

The promise of something better

Glimpsed through the thorns.

The reward is there for the taking

If only we can navigate the hurt and trouble.

Nurse the scratches, remove the remnants

And reach for the fruit!

My tub is filling as I search and scramble.

Change the angle

To reveal another cluster;

Again, like life - the way you look at things

Can uncover much; a better view.

I know a poem by an Irishman

But couldn't remember it clearly.

The brambles drew me to it,

To remind myself of his words.

Heaney's poem surprises me;

A shocking ending of blackberries

Turned bad.

I want better for mine.

I have gathered them to me.

I want to transform them,

Like a fairy tale ending.

I will appreciate them before

They gain woolly jackets

Or lose their form in mush.

I will sweeten mine,

Luxuriate them with heat

And savour them:

I will preserve their essence

And enjoy them beyond this day

The blackberries I picked.