Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My father was a farmer and my mother was a farm wife, and being a farm wife in those days meant preserving things. Like blackberries. But before they could be preserved, they had to be picked. I remember so many hot summer days when she would drag my unwilling corpus out to the blackberry briar patch to be pricked and scratched as we picked those luscious berries. Unlike Seamus Heaney's experience, our berries never went to rot. My mother soon turned them into jellies, jams, preserves - they were delicious and were a comfort to us through the long, cold winters, a reminder that summer would come again. 

Blackberry-Picking

by Seamus Heaney 

Late August, given heavy rain and sun

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet

Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for

Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger

Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.

Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills

We trekked and picked until the cans were full,

Until the tinkling bottom had been covered

With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned

Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered

With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.

But when the bath was filled we found a fur,

A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.

The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush

The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.

I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair

That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.

Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.