Picking Blackberries in October

    

        Between high banks
        we follow the lane
        as it curves downhill.


        Above,
        the washed blue
        curls with pale cloud;
        sun-brightness
        and sharp shadow
        make almost-summer


        until
        the cool wind,
        picking nonchalantly
        at leaves and grass-stems,
        whites out shadows on the road,
        drains colour from the day.


        We perch on weed-grown walls,
        or, ankle deep in rough grass
        bestride ditches
        to pull the glossy fruit;
        thorns,
        malevolent beneath hedgerow green,
        stab our naked fingers.


        She
        reaches up to pick;
        against the gentle curve
        of her reaching,
        massed willowherb
        dies in Autumn crimson.


        Suddenly,
        beyond her beauty,
        I see the years
        curve downhill
        into Winter.