Sunday, 9 August 2015

The berry run.

Once the calidity of the day had passed we followed the badger trails and failing sun along the river until we met the abandoned canal.

It once held the promise of connections south, but now it tells the tale, in sandy-silted whispers, of grand schemes lost and boats that never came.

Here, among the honeyed grasses, ghostly thistledown and dandelion globes, is the bramble larder we came to raid.

The blackberries were already fat and full, made sweet by summer sun. We filled our pot to the brim and gorged ourselves on the fruit, our fingers juice tainted and torn by thorns. Our willing sacrifice for such pleasure. Once sated we turned tail in the dying light and chased the night shadows home.


  1. I have a clear memory of being small, surrounded by blackberry bushes, eating to my heart's delight.

    1. These are the things that stay with us. :)


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