There is water now where the sheep grazed,
a second blue sky
stretching from our feet to the hills
where paired upright and inverted turbines
turn slow semaphore signals.
Skirting the gate
and stepping over the fence,
avoiding sodden gullies and thistles,
we come to the bramble-mounds
where the sweet black musky berries wait.
Recycled honey-buckets over wrists,
one hand to steadies the stem,
while the other plucks the plump fruit,
some so ripe it drops at a touch.
We alternately fill the buckets
until both are full near to overflowing.
Fingers and mouths stained purple,
hands and arms scratched,
we return home triumphant.
and the scent of
dust, musk and summer heat
fills the kitchen
as we pour these dog-days of summer
into a dozen jars,
to be put away until we need
a taste of sunshine.
18 responses to “Blackberrying, Lake George”
Yum! I really should go for a drive and see Lake George. I do like seeing it with water in it.
It’s fuller than I’ve ever seen it before. And there are lots of blackberries around the rest area below the lookout. 🙂
This got my juices flowing, Kate. 😂
😀 ummm… good?
Very good! 😂
Your poem evokes many fond memories of blackberry picking 😊
It’s a real annual event here 🙂 I saw several other people picking as well.
it was a good time. glad you still have them.
thanks John ❤
I loved picking wild blackberries with my mother when I was young, and coming home to make the jam.
Only my daughter comes with me now, my teenage sons seem to have outgrown it. Although one still had blackberry jam on his pancakes this morning, so I guess that’s sort of involvement. 🙂
We’ll take what we can get, won’t we?!
Beautiful poem! Well shared thanks 💕😊👌
Thank you Priti 🙂
You are welcome 🎉stay blessed ❤❤
wonderful expressive words
Thanks David ❤