Swinging the empty tin buckets between us
We run like hares
Up the back road behind the shop
Past Mc Ginty’s and Mc Gavigans cottages
Breathing in the heady scent
Of summer’s end and autumn’s tentative step
Tossing the bucket over the nearest makeshift gate
We pass the wee brother we have to keep safe
Over the stout palin posts
Held together with strands of barb wire
Decorated with sheep’s attire
To fields beyond
mucky with cow’s meanderings
Soon our lips and tongues are purple wine
As we feasted on the first luscious blackberry find
Entangled in nettles that sting ruthlessly
And thorns sharp as a doctor’s syringe
Find their way beneath long sleeves
As we stretched the higher ripe fruit to find
Hours later
We return – a weary line
Overflowing buckets clasped in pin cushion fingers
The brother well minded
Sated, with berry juice
Black lipped as Louie Armstrong
Asleep on somebody’s arms
After the day’s work in
The blackberry patch
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 