A languid childhood summer,
timeless in its innocent pleasure.
A hedgerow clothed with dusty speckles;
black, purple and crimson,
among the verdigris and thorns.
Each plump, juicy little orb
picked with infinite care,
collected in the basket
of someone's proffered shirt or blouse.
The stained fingers, sticky sweet,
holding each berry,
alert for aphid or other pest:
One to toss into the mouth and pop,
one to be saved for later.
All of us simply savouring the moment,
unaware of the possible memories
to be engendered in a distant future;
darker connotations of such simple actions.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem