Among the Brambles

Brambly grave

Working through a black-
berry patch, you learn
a new way to move, step
high & slow as a heron,
pivot to trample back-
wards in your big boots,
& lean nimble as a lover
into the fiercest thorns
to get free. These are
not skills of widespread
applicability. But one
day when the sweat dries
& the mosquito’s skirl
dwindles to a soft wind
in the inner ear, you may
find yourself stretching,
stretching, stretching for
that last sweet berry
& wondering why in hell
your hand won’t move.

10 Replies to “Among the Brambles”

  1. Like the picture and the poem both–apt and interesting conjunction. Well, they were black, weren’t they?

    I see you moving there, too, tall and stalky. This is not a short woman’s poem, it is a tall Dave’s poem!

    1. Marly, that photo like the others in this series was taken at London’s Highgate Cemetery, but I believe those are some sort of rubus — I’m not sure of the species. My mom (who’s also fairly tall) actually does the majority of blackberry picking these days, though I did contribute six quarts of wineberries the other night. I was thankful for blue jeans despite the heat — they are ideal for wading through briar patches.

Leave a Reply to Albert B. Casuga Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.