Driving into Truro this afternoon, we followed a van the rear of which which made me smile.
Driving home, the grey sky was suddenly lit in such a way that we seemed to be looking through some torn holes to see the silver lining.
I was given this poem yesterday and it delighted me both as an eater of Blackberries and a bit of a wordsmith.
Blackberry Eating – Galway Kinnell
I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry-eating in late September.
Isn’t it a delight?