Blackberry picking along the West Way;
The sun is shining: it's a beautiful day;
Working away, going from left to right,
With the sun overhead, burning so bright.
A wasp, which is clearly as enthusiastic as me,
Flies too close, causing me to temporarily flee;
Dozens of butterflies are now on the wing,
And, up in the treetops, cheerful birds sing.
Berries, not yet ripe, are still a warm shade of red,
Whilst others, now ripened, have rushed on ahead;
Ripened berries shine enticingly, reflecting the sun -
Some collapse as I clasp them between finger and thumb,
But most are firm, and, their shape, they retain,
Making it worth the fleeting flashes of pain,
As vicious thorns tear angrily at my bare skin,
Attempting to protect the precious jewels within.
To give up their fruits, the brambles aren't willing,
But, with glossy berries, my box is steadily filling;
I can sense the resistance; sense the pull,
But my rectangular container is very soon full.
With dark, crimson juice, my fingers are stained,
But it's all part of the fun, so I cannot complain;
Some berries are big, whilst some are quite small,
And I soon return home feeling satisfied with my afternoon's haul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem