Blackberry Jam

In the evening, we walked the towpath.

Ducks rattled reeds, rippling stagnant

water in sundown’s amber light.

 

We braved brambles for blackberries,

tangled knots of purple succulence

shrouded in swarms of midges.

 

Scratched and bitten, our battle wounds allowed

only a taste of the spoils, the rest left, layered,

sugar and berries, draped with muslin.

 

In the morning they simmered softly,

slowly stirred so as not to stick,

filling the kitchen with sweet scent.

 

Those jars, serried on a shelf,

put by for winter every year,

never made it past Halloween.

◄ Not A Summer’s Day

Basalt ►

Comments

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jennifer Malden

Mon 1st Nov 2021 11:19

Lovely! Especially first verse setting the scene. My mother used to make masses of jam, particularly blaeberry and bramble, in a huge copper pan, and the scent was inviting. Jennifer

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John Coopey

Wed 6th Oct 2021 00:03

Blackberry crumble for me, Trevor, sans apple or sugar. Decadently tart.

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keith jeffries

Tue 5th Oct 2021 22:22

Trevor,
A very good poem which took me back to a time when an aunt made her own jam in the same way after rambling through the bracken. I must also agree with you, it never ever made it past Halloween.

Thank you for this

Keith

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