A small handful

... of blackberries, freshly picked this afternoon, are going towards a blackberry and apple crumble. As you see, most are not yet ripe. I feel exonerated; here's why: earlier this year I was commissioned to write one third of a book of poems for a mainstream educational publisher. My offerings included a 4-verse poem about the seasons. This was my autumn verse:

Boots on!
October lanes
are rain-soaked, slippery.
We fill baskets with blackberries;
light fires.

The editor (living and working in the city of London, and doubtless only seeing blackberries in Waitrose, or wherever) argued that blackberries were not autumn fruits. My freelance commissioning editor, however, agreed with my not wanting to change what I knew to be accurate. She fought my corner and "October" won the day. The book's in print with an illustration that makes it look as though blackberries grow like apples on trees. You win some, you lose some!

Later this month, the blackberries will ripen, and the weather might then match my poem's words. At the moment, it's still like summer. T-Shirt and sandals weather! Loving it.