I take Jack to pick blackberries.
I’d spotted them earlier in the hedge
down the lane and over a stile,
brambles hanging heavy overhead
We each carry
what we could find in the kitchen:
me a jug, he a plastic box.
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 like the tartest ones, sharp as a high summer sky.
And Jack only looks and me and smiles, nodding,
his hand finding
the furthest blackberries just
beyond my reach.
