Blackberry Picking

    You were only a child
  once, then your life ballooned
like linens catching the October wind.

                  A boy had followed you
                past the bins, past the garden
        to the glades. You watched as his body

    was no longer
  a body, but a forest salted
with snow, prickling with autumn sun.

                    Your sisters took you
                blackberry picking, fed you
            stories of fairies hiding in the glen.

    And you believed them,
  like you always do, spending
nights fly-bitten and curled beside

                        the dying silver
                birch your uncle cut before
            his anger had language. You waited

    for those voices
  to chime out like minims
of powdered air, manna ready at first

                    light. There is so much
              you would give for this. This not
quite England. This clipped nail of Kashmir.

    Years later, the stones
  still hum below your feet. A wind
runs its fingers through the bracken

                    of your hair. The land
                speaks only in ancient song.
      Like how the thicket breaks, becoming

                a hand –