I have fond memories of going blackberrying
On Sundays, with my Dad, when I was a child.
Situated on the very outskirts of our little town,
The lane was long and winding, lonely and wild.
We worked our way along the prickly hedgerows,
Plucking perfect fruit from amongst the brambles,
But the berries, which were over ripe or under ripe,
Were left behind by us, during our country rambles.
We picked plenty of plump, juicy berries,
And popped them all in to our plastic pot.
Dad seemed to know the very best time to go,
So we always returned home with quite a lot.
Along the way, we spotted spiders in their webs;
Of spiders, I have always been a little scared.
So any fruit which was located round about,
Was more than welcome to stay right there!
The blackberries were taken home to Mum,
Who mixed them up with apples, inside a pie.
I always felt a small sense of pride, as we ate
Those blackberries, picked by my Dad and I.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem