Some green, some red, some inky dark
they line the groves throughout the park.
A poet, fool by all reports,
comes to pick in flimsy shorts
and footwear for the brambly copse –
trip-prone, slippy, old flip flops.
So there it is, the dumb cluck leans
and learns first hand of histamines.
Despite the splinters and the scratches
he'll be back for further batches –
early August, two months hence
ill-equipped, no common-sense,
red raw shins and purple knees
all for love – of blackberries.
