We braved the wasps and nettles,
feet fearing the moist scrabble of tiny frogs
and came home
with bags of dripping berries.
Elicited nods from sweet old ladies
and questions of recipes.
Oh I scored points for making jam not pies.
To see my babies lined up
To see the sun slant through the ruby
and feel that female pride
of storing bounty up for winter,
anticipating spooning scented jelly
on toast on steaming cold mornings
negates the quarrelling,
the thorns in fingers
and dresses ruined with purple.
in some small fragrant way
that kind of mother.