I belong to a great writing group. Once a month we meet and share all sorts of different writing, and all of it’s wonderful. They’re a special group of people and I always come away feeling inspired.

But this month, I was so busy with writing and editing, I nearly didn’t get anything done. I almost read from a new novel I’m working on, but that feels like cheating.

So I wrote a five minute poem, like a stream of consciousness.

I’m not sure what it all means, but I was picking blackberries in the hedgerow, listening to music, and it popped into my head.

So – what do you make of it? It’s a strange thing, but here it is…

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

Blackberry Picking

You and I picking blackberries

Dark juice drips, lips stained purple

Skin snagged as we stretch for high fruit

Grasping at clusters

tight as little fists or closely curled heads,

A bittersweet tang bursts on our tongues,

The shiniest heaviest ones

here –

no

– here

just out of reach

A wasp hums and flicks away

We cram soft handfuls in our mouths

the basket is almost empty

There will be no crumble now, no jam

But we have tasted the moment.

More fruit will come tomorrow.