In the evening, we walked the towpath.

Ducks rattled reeds, rippling stagnant

water in sundown’s amber light.

 

We braved brambles for blackberries,

tangled knots of purple succulence

shrouded in swarms of midges.

 

Scratched and bitten, our battle wounds allowed

only a taste of the spoils, the rest left, layered,

sugar and berries, draped with muslin.

 

In the morning they simmered softly,

slowly stirred so as not to stick,

filling the kitchen with sweet scent.

 

Those jars, serried on a shelf,

put by for winter every year,

never made it past Halloween.