The roadside or the parkland, the field or the wood,
Your garden or your neighbour’s, both are just as good.
They scramble over bushes, take footholds, reaching long;
Their roots spread like a virus through the soil and just as strong.
But summer sees their flowers, so delicate and white
Then soon the petals, like confetti, take to the air in flight;
Revealing small green pellets of undeveloped fruit
Then sun and rain soon swell the clusters of every little drupe.
Until comes time when berries ripe, their plump and darkened flesh,
For creatures feast and birds descend, their beaks and claws do thresh
The berries from their stalks, but humans aren’t so deft
With skin that rips; the piercing thorns stab hands both right and left.
The gauze, encased with spikes so cruel, envelops every bough,
Then even when you reach the fruit, its own thorns spike you now.
They ooze in red from stabbings past, their tips a steely white,
Ready, primed and needle sharp, they’re spoiling for a fight.
And even if you make it through and save your blood and skin,
Beware the hair of trichomes when the nettles burn and sting.
So gird your loins before you go, wear gloves and take a stick,
Wear boots and coat whatever else protects you from the prick.
But when all’s said and done and you’re home and battle scarred
At least you have your trophy for a crumble or jam jars!
Sophia's Blog 