Gathering
Brambles twine round crosses, stray
across shaded paths; proffer blackberries
mostly still to ripen.
The few we pick
leave our fingers purple-inky
like schoolboys’: plump, glossy beauties
up high or hidden
under the lower leaves; dry
stubby-looking things, rats’ noses
tiny black hand grenades.
Impossible to say
which will prove sweet.
* Having failed as a scrapyard worker, a handyman and a trainee teacher, Chris Tracy is hoping for better luck as a poet. He lives in Norwich.
