Blackberries are perhaps
a pound or so for an adequate punnet
in the supermarket. Picking them
is easy; putting them into your basket
a piece of cake. At home, they bleed
in your mouth, stain your fingers,
if you let them.

But you won't, for on the journey
you spot a scrawl of brambles,
and we pile out, risking tetanus,
torn shirts, bloodstains,
in a battle fought with increasing
viciousness on both sides.

The prize hardly covers
the base of the ambitiously large box.
And we have to pretend to enjoy
these gritty things, that taste
of bitterness and traffic fumes.