Late August, given heavy rain and sun br For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. br At first, just one, a glossy purple clot br Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. br You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet br Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it br Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for br Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger br Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots br Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. br Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills br We trekked and picked until the cans were full br Until the tinkling bottom had been covered br With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned br Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered br With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. br We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. br But when the bath was filled we found a fur, br A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. br The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush br The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. br I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair br That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. br Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.