Annual Blackberry Blip

I can't let late August / early September pass without a blackberry blip, though these ones in the back lane still have some ripening to do.

See a year ago today:

https://www.blipfoto.com/entry/2483008236173658039

We've had a busy day with Sophie, popping over to see Chris before he set off to Heathrow for his flight for a week's holiday in Las Vegas, then Tess represented us at the memorial service for an elderly neighbour who passed away recently before we went to see the new version of The Lion King at the cinema in Bridgwater, which all three of us loved.

To accompany the annual blackberry blip, here's the annual blackberry poem, this one by Sylvia Plath:

Blackberrying

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.