Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries, <br />Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly, <br />A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea <br />Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries <br />Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes <br />Ebon in the hedges, fat <br />With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers. <br />I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me. <br />They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides. <br /> <br />Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --- <br />Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky. <br />Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting. <br />I do not think the sea will appear at all. <br />The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within. <br />I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies, <br />Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen. <br />The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven. <br />One more hook, and the berries and bushes end. <br /> <br />The only thing to come now is the sea. <br />From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me, <br />Slapping its phantom laundry in my face. <br />These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt. <br />I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me <br />To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock <br />That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space <br />Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths <br />Beating and beating at an intractable metal.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blackberrying/
