Brambling Poem by Bill Wright

Every year I still go out,
In search of a purple patch,
Of brambles.
I have done it as a child,
I have done it with my boys,
I still do it.

It seems such a waste,
Walking past them and leaving them there;
Unpicked.
Collect them, wash them, bag them.
Later in the year they go in a crumble;
You can't beat it.

The best ones are usually just out of reach,
You have to struggle and stretch,
Get covered in scratches, the odd bit of blood;
The highest rewards for the highest risk.
Who would have thought it?
Brambling, a metaphor for life.