mist thick with the yawning breath of October
I begged for us to pick the last of the blackberries lining the pathway
Plump with purple nectar
hesitant fingers dodging thorns for the prize
the rancid apples that long ago fell
with their cloying stink, sit in the long grass
where dewdrops settle strong and glistening
and we wander onwards, crimson nosed
glaring sunlight and an air-borne sharpness
makes her loveliness a jewelled clarity
it’s where life is, it’s where you are –
I’ll meet you where the blackberries grow.
