We plucked the thorny blackberry bush,
Scratches – blood mixed with raisin sap;
Jam jars and tin cups filled to the brim-
Full of the fermenting fruit.
Stained mouths, from overeating,
Unripe red on our jerseys,
Tattered mostly from our toil.
Late afternoon on the Togher bus,
Home, with fruit rattling in their jars;
Now it was our mother’s work
To melt and squash the fruit,
Sugared boiling water;
Hardening until it could
Spread on brown bread,
And the pips would crunch
Like soft nuts,
Between our teeth.
© Fingleton (novembre 2016) (Löst Viking)