Blackberrying
Nobody
in
the
lane,
and
nothing,
nothing
but
blackberries,
Blackberries
on
either
side,
though
on
the
right
mainly,
A
blackberry
alley,
going
down
in
hooks,
and
a
sea
Somewhere
at
the
end
of
it,
heaving.
Blackberries
Big
as
the
ball
of
my
thumb,
and
dumb
as
eyes
Ebon
in
the
hedges,
fat
With
blue-red
juices.
These
they
squander
on
my
fingers.
I
had
not
asked
for
such
a
blood
sisterhood;
they
must
love
me.
They
accommodate
themselves
to
my
milkbottle,
flattening
their
sides.
Overhead
go
the
choughs
in
black,
cacophonous
flocks
—-
Bits
of
burnt
paper
wheeling
in
a
blown
sky.
Theirs
is
the
only
voice,
protesting,
protesting.
I
do
not
think
the
sea
will
appear
at
all.
The
high,
green
meadows
are
glowing,
as
if
lit
from
within.
I
come
to
one
bush
of
berries
so
ripe
it
is
a
bush
of
flies,
Hanging
their
bluegreen
bellies
and
their
wing
panes
in
a
Chinese
screen.
The
honey-feast
of
the
berries
has
stunned
them;
they
believe
in
heaven.
One
more
hook,
and
the
berries
and
bushes
end.
The
only
thing
to
come
now
is
the
sea.
From
between
two
hills
a
sudden
wind
funnels
at
me,
Slapping
its
phantom
laundry
in
my
face.
These
hills
are
too
green
and
sweet
to
have
tasted
salt.
I
follow
the
sheep
path
between
them.
A
last
hook
brings
me
To
the
hills'
northern
face,
and
the
face
is
orange
rock
That
looks
out
on
nothing,
nothing
but
a
great
space
Of
white
and
pewter
lights,
and
a
din
like
silversmiths
Beating
and
beating
at
an
intractable
metal.
