Picking Blackberries

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

Blackberry-picking, Seamus Heaney




The poem isn’t about blackberries at all.
But back then it could have been;
for us it was as simple as the narrow corridors of spines
that weave through the allotments.
as simple as hands and fingers and faded margarine tubs. 

Ripped jeans from the barbed wire fence
that tears the Ashley Down Road
from the private grid of potting sheds.
We were fearless.


Yet secretly inside we shook
with the thrill of breaking the rules.
A sour sweetness bursting between our teeth; 

Now we’re proud of tastes matured. The indigo fruit
replaced by sophisticated Italian drinks and


The cafe table is too small for me and you,
for all our knees.


We catch each other’s last goodbyes upon our tongues
like moths
and hold them tight between our lips; our gums bruise deep
with bloody bramble wine.


The feather light palomino swirls of foam
Slowly cooling in the curve of a coffee mug.