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‘Season of mists
and yellow fruitfulness...’
And of blackberries,
the caviar of hedgerows;
September’s the time,
when the hours
between sun and shade
get more pressing.


Our plastic bowls
set down on dew-soaked
grass; wasps grow drowsy.
No more the need
to fight them off
as, tipsy, they gorge,
fit to bust.


The berries yield
to our touch – rich,
ripe, and shouting
to be picked – joining
mouth, teeth and tongue
in succulent oneness.


On tiptoe we sieve
through a criss-cross
of twigs – tangled
like mermaids’ tresses...
Branches stripped bare,
looking on through
to a fathomless blue.
And, for a moment,


our minds are emptied
of all others but this...
right here, right now;
how red are your lips,
and how sweet is
our blackberry wine
in its consummation.