Where the Snacks Grow Wild

My heart wanders now to a place, far in time,

out back, up the hill, beyond the tree line.

I’m there, in the home where I lived as a child,

with the pure love of family and snacks that grow wild.

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Up the short climb, we would trek with our pails.

Beyond the spruce trees, through the well-worn out trails.

Into the bog, where the fresh berries grew,

partridge, bakeapple, and blueberries too.

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In blueberry season, we’d fill our small tubs,

and feast on sweet berries, straight from the shrubs.

When we got our fill, both in belly and mug,

we’d bring some to Mom and receive a warm hug.

*

Cookies and cakes, and jams smooth as silk,

or in a small bowl with sugar and milk.

Endless variations, with no rhyme or reason,

the sweet treats Mom made us in blueberry season.

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In oatmeal or on ice cream, we couldn’t get enough.

Most especially, my favourite – the Blueberry Duff.

A dense pudding cake, steamed in a cloth sack,

with tangy, sweet berries, that pudding was packed.

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The Duff was still steaming, when sliced onto plates,

and covered in glaze, while we’d eagerly wait.

The warm scent, it lingers in memory these days,

the savory berries, the cinnamon glaze.

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Oh, what I would give to go back there in time,

to that place, with my brothers, that hill we would climb.

We’d bring home those berries; to feel Mom’s warm hug,

and have one more sweet taste of that Blueberry Duff.