Those pink blackberries hard as stone
The taste of bitterness and hairy stalk
The  sort of colour made with a mixture
In plastic bag catching the end of season
One more drip of divine wine to taking
The bushes continue their few bright tips
And picking hurts the fingers till sorely
It is Autumn stocking in its cold offering
In the evening when people return home
We were special in our togetherness.

Love Mary ***