Photo by Nine Köpfer on Unsplash

I walk on the wobbly little bridge
to pick blackberries.
The canes arc high and joyful
so full of fruit they are.
A berry in my mouth spills
a dark burst of juice.
My hand reaches for another
and in some part I am aware
of the picking that continues,
but my mind has gone elsewhere.
I am six or seven, walking in
September, two by two with
classmates.
We could not go far, but
teachers determined us
to walk out, listening for
sirens that announced
the approach of enemy
raids.
Berries hung heavy among
the hedges beside the lane,
and my friends and I took
notice as we walked.
When school was done, we
would hurry to gather these
berries, gobble them up before
we hurried home, not to be late
and worry people at home.
I saw so clearly those hedges,
the deep green and the yellowing
leaves, with a few red rosehips
here and there.
Suddenly another berry juiced
in my mouth,
and the scene dissolved, but
the  of this lingered, joining
the pleasure of this peaceful
morning.