blackberries

The first sharp taste of blackberries

you hold a palm-full; the juice runs through your fingers like blood

still-green ferns are amber-tipped as cool mists fall

pheasants rise with the sound of stalled engines

past the damask of damsons and sloes

that thread hedgerow and bog covering our muddy boots with pulp

we gather earthly pleasures in russet woods

and later by the fire with red wine, pumpkin and venison

there is the sweet fading scent of apples in the attic

and your stained hands on me