BLACKBERRIES

It’s that time of year again

Blackberries everywhere;

Black fingers, black lips

And nobody seems to care.

We picked them as youngsters

Way back when;

My mother making some pin money

By collecting them for the Blackberry Man

Who called round once a week

In his big truck

And shovelled our offerings

Into his steel bin

As close-packed as they would go,

Dripping black water as he worked;

Mothers little trick of making them heavier

Than they should be

Was to add water to the barrel.

I see you were out picking them in the rain again, Mrs O’Brien

Was his only comment as he handed over her payment,

Here’s an extra half crown for your trouble.