Unblackberrying

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A blackberry lies quite whole in the flowerbed,

Wrenched from its stem by some unknowing force,

It is a fallen fruit, a berry stricken.

As yet unsullied by dank soil surrounding,

'Tis a mass of polyps purplish-black,

A minute cluster of burnished orbs fused

by sunlight and the nip of the wind.

A bush of unripe amaranth

obscures a lost portion of its crop,
From the tentative fingers of passers-by.

And so our berry lies unpunctured,

Whilst beneath its barbed surface,

Caustic juices are brimming silently.

But this one is not to be savoured.

Miserable juices ebb away...

Yet below its cobwebby film,

The earth is moistened once again.