clinging to the withering bramble.

Just out of reach.

Not quite.

Enough to flavour the apple cooking.

The hair like thorn has pierced unnoticed

until the irritation breaks consciousness hours later.


Look up and see the holly, haw and rowan

ejecting their fruitful berries,

a coloured canvas of reds, greens and hues of beauty

paused for admiration,

wonder and wellbeing,

awaiting their dissemination by birds with appetite and flight. 


And also there

a tardy group of bilberries,

stifled by dryness in June,

they find a way to join the harvest festival

and play with their devourer,

painting the fingers and tongue a royal purple.


Bilberry, blackberry, haw, holly and rowan

joined by the blood-red garden raspberry

whose brightness calls a blackbird to dance in flight and pluck.

He makes no distinction in the property, investment or desires of man

but claims the lavish berry banquet set out from heaven

before the coolness turns to coldness and coldness turns to ice.


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