Blackberry Picking

(Tullamore Tribune 2019)

No guilt in these berry-stained fingertips

black emeralds of abscessed half-truths 

teased from the brambles vine, childhood

trills of laughter still echoing 

There was a logic and justification

in the accidently fumbled fruit

gifted to the continuance;

offerings made to a mother who dared 

to hope not all her sons would be 

sacrificed.

We competed with birdsong unseen,

imagined the as yet unexplained delights of

compound eyes staring up from deep buckets,

full of dark promise and possibility.

They still stare at me from the confused

wayside ditch during the meditation 

that is solitary blackberry picking.

Time has extended my reach, so I 

can see now, both through and over ditches,

ditches that blocked and frustrated

childhood dreams, ditches where some fruits

suspended, are still beyond my grasp; promises

that never can be delivered, despite

their price being now clearly understood.

I reach for the forbidden,

- last taichi moments of an old man plucking 

memories from an ancient ditch, 

- a ditch, still wilder-filled with dreams.

© NiallOConnor 2019