When the blackberries hangswollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches, reaching my ripped arms, thinking of nothing, cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth; all day my body accepts what it is. In the dark creeks that run by there is this thick paw of my life darting among the black bells, the leaves; there is this happy tongue.Mary Oliver
I love this poem. It sums up so eloquently, but with utter simplicity, the delight of foraging
in the summer months. In August.
The pure joy that comes from being amongst nature. The stillness, the feeling of being
a tiny piece in the world's big picture. It is a poem full of the graceful force of being
alive! Eating, moving, stretching, roaming.
It has a reflected clarity so easily recognisable,
by any who have wandered, gathering berries, by the river, along hidden bramble banks, or
In turn I have laughed to myself today, thinking about how sharply in contrast one of my
favourite blackberry haunts is.
The ginnel behind my house. It hides the most perfect blackberries I have ever seen.
Even the birds seem to know nothing of its existence. The berries grow to such proportions they would n't look out of place amongst the supermarket's gleamingly, mega farmed
Away from the wildlife, hanging up high and over a wall, between houses, they
glean the very most sunshine, growing to be gloriously fat and liquescent!
After I have been tootling along with the small folk, by the canal, or across the old
railway bridge and gathered as many as little limbs can manage, I slip out through the gate
in the garden wall. An Urbanite's Harvest.
Not for jam or to be hidden in cake, oh no. These will be secreted away to the recesses of
the freezer, only to be brought back to the table, when the days are short and cold, and
Then they will bejewel our porridge, bringing with them a little whisper, a poem about those long warm summers days past and of more to come.