This poem was written in Loxton, Somerset, during that seemingly endless summer of 1976. It comes with a very sincere apology to Sylvia Plath.
 

 
“Write me a poem about blackberrying”,
she said.
“OK”, I said,
“But don’t you think it would be better,
if I was to write about blackberrying,
after we had just done some?”
“Why?” she said,
“You write lots of poems about love,
without going blackberrying first.”
 

 
© David Hermelin 2016