![]() ![]() Seamus Heaney’s poem describes the impatient waiting for the blackberries to ripen, the enthusiasm to pick lots and lots and then not consuming them all before the fungus set in. ![]() “Hurry up, Lieselott, it is late.” (Plenty of time! She feigns deaf and dawdles.) Old woman tasting the last of the fruit, in sunny oblivion, in a still brightness. Lieselott Among the Blackberries By Gerda MayerĬaught on September’s blackberry hook, her hands reach out for the sweet dark fruit wholly under the blackberry spell. Gerda Mayer’s poem just describes that feeling of time stopping, of the warm autumn sun shining on the briars and the blackberry pickers, the bitter yet sweet fruit, the feeling of not wanting to go inside to start baking but wanting to stay in the evening sun. It seems good timing to share some poems about the magic of blackberry picking as we are nearing the blackberry picking time. I also remember looking at the bottom of my little sandcastle bucket and thinking it looked very empty, going to my mother’s fuller bucket and taking some of hers so mine looked ‘more respectably full’. My memories of blackberry picking include getting scratched by brambles and eating blackberry and apple pie that evening. Some parts of the country will have ripe blackberries by now, others will have red and green berries in the ditches and will take another fortnight to ripen. ![]()
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