I take Jack to pick blackberries.
I’d spotted them earlier
down the lane and through 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 on the hedge
Like children sat on a gate
Rosehips and hawthorn berries peep through leaves, biding their time.
I say, look at the colours
Green then red and then
Finally,
shiny, glowing,
deepest purple
And how the fattest fall just so into your hand
As if they had been waiting
Soft bubbles bursting with juice
Our fingers 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 blackberries just beyond my reach .
