We are led into blackberries,for our picking
From night, a word of night we would pick
Before morning, in hillside thorny picking.
Of course there are briers and violet blood
On our childhood pockets, purple memory
A sweet anticipation, taste tingled tongue.
Unlike the poet , we would not let fruit rot
To rue growth’s inevitable disappointment
Tracing tiny white flowers causa proxima.
We would love simple white moon flowers
The transformation to passion- violet fruit
But avoid to think forward the rot in barn.
Growth is desperate journey to rottenness
A bone rot, a dust of the childhood’s blood.
We must stop somewhere before a rot sets.
(After reading Seamus Heaney’s poem Blackberry Picking)