I have fond memories of going blackberrying <br />On Sundays, with my Dad, when I was a child. <br />Situated on the very outskirts of our little town, <br />The lane was long and winding, lonely and wild. <br /> <br />We worked our way along the prickly hedgerows, <br />Plucking perfect fruit from amongst the brambles, <br />But the berries, which were over ripe or under ripe, <br />Were left behind by us, during our country rambles. <br /> <br />We picked plenty of plump, juicy berries, <br />And popped them all in to our plastic pot. <br />Dad seemed to know the very best time to go, <br />So we always returned home with quite a lot. <br /> <br />Along the way, we spotted spiders in their webs; <br />Of spiders, I have always been a little scared. <br />So any fruit which was located round about, <br />Was more than welcome to stay right there! <br /> <br />The blackberries were taken home to Mum, <br />Who mixed them up with apples, inside a pie. <br />I always felt a small sense of pride, as we ate <br />Those blackberries, picked by my Dad and I.<br /><br />Angela Wybrow<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blackberry-picking-4/
