Sat, 23 Aug 2014
‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness...’
And of blackberries, the caviar of hedgerows;
September’s the time, when the hours
between sun and shade grow more pressing.
Our sated bowls set down on dew-damp
grass; wasps wax – 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 begging to be picked – joining lips, mouth
and tongue in succulent oneness.
On tenter hooks we sift through a maze,
a myriad 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 her lips,
and how sweet is our blackberry wine
in its consummation.