I take Rowan to pick blackberries.
I knew where they’d be
Up through the allotments beyond the windmill,
brambles hanging heavy in the sunshine
We each carry
what we could find in the kitchen:
me a jug, he a plastic box. He clutches
it to his chest with both hands,
stepping carefully over cracks in the pavement.
Here then,
The clutches of fruit perch
like children sitting on a gate.
Rosehips and sloes peep yet
through the leaves, biding their time.
I say,
look at the colours.
Green then red and then
finally
shiny, glowing,
deepest purple.
And oh how the fattest fall just so
into your hand,
as if they have been waiting
Soft bubbles bursting with juice
Our fingers and chins
turn pink
I give him the biggest and sweetest.
I like the **** ones, sharp as a high summer sky.
The evening sun sends our shadows on and on
As I stop to watch him he grows,
transforming
right in front of me, long fingers and a wide wide grin, daisy faced, I must tilt
My head to meet his eye.
Now his hands find
the furthest blackberries
just
beyond
my reach.