Wild

I go looking for the stories you told me,

the ones I only half-remember because

I was only half-listening at the time.

I leave the city in search of blackberries

to pick off hedges and bake in a pie,

hoping that when it is opened you will begin,

in a blackbird voice, to sing.

Down the lane there is nothing,

but at last in Nannerch, behind the Cherry Pie,

high-heels sinking in the mud and stung

by thorns, I find wild raspberries.

You stretch a frayed sleeve through the hedgerow

into the sun and open your grimy small boy’s hand

to let me see the treasure, slightly squashed.

I take the berries from your palm

and eat them one by one. Your days

sing in my mouth, the fruit still warm.