We walked along the well worn path,
Long baked beneath the sun,
Like a piece of clay in sculptor’s hand,
Till satisfied it’s done.

Small dusty clouds kicked by bare feet,
With each step that is taken,
Our destination known by heart,
Our purpose not mistaken.

Around a bend, then straight ahead,
Blackberry patch in view,
With berries plump and sweet to tongue,
Still wet with morning dew.

One for the pail, one for our mouth,
So picking was quite slow,
Not stopping till our buckets filled,
To almost overflow.

The sun now higher in the sky,
Warmed ground beneath our feet,
So that we hurried down the path,
Almost as in retreat.

No taste on earth to compare to,
A homemade berry pie,
Made with berries, all hand picked,
Made ripe by summer sky.

Years later I returned again,
To seek the place I’d known,
Faint path was all that still remained,
Where berry patch had grown.

For change had come with berries gone,
A row of houses there,
Nothing left but memories,
Of what was picked with care.

The blackberry patch poem © Loree (Mason) O’neil.