Grotto
Alcoves in the hedges hide the blackberries and the
picker. Muddles of flora from bud to seed; spiders, the sort with banded legs,
spin thick webs; slow wasps can be picked off the fruit and left to be
confused; into the open pot the ripe fruits are dropped.
On the other side of the hedge are whispers: hazel
fronds or ghosts, it cannot be told. The story is indecipherable, the noise
fascinating.
This sky could bring any weather. The wind is colder
than yesterday.
Purple fingers sneak through brambles, pluck away the
ripe fruits: into the pot they drop: hazel fronds or ghosts: whispers and wind
chill bringing welcome shivers.
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