BLACKBERRY WOODS

BLACKBERRY WOODS

Blackberry bushes

scrape one side of the tracks,

the train stopped in the woods

by the semaphore’s arm.

My father jumps out.

In his cupped hands he brings me

blackberries warm from the sun.

He pours the glistening

berries into my hands.

The sweetest, the blackest

he brings me

forever from nameless woods.

I am eating the black sun.

Father goes to pick more,

and I know he’ll be left

behind –

a flash of his shirt

in thorn-studded brambles,

at the window my mute

screaming mouth.

But the train

blows a whistle for the lost.

He jumps back onboard,

and like a slow waltz,

rocking side to side,

in blackberry woods

we begin to keep time,

lips stained with departing purple.

~ Oriana 

**

I know there are many blackberry poems. I hope to be forgiven -- this one is in memory of my father, Leszek. Below is a picture of him at 14, in his school uniform.