Poems: Blackberries by the creek

When I was young, we used to stray
Down by the creek most every day,
Where brambles tangled, wild and free,
And blackberries grew for such as me.

We’d reach through thorns with eager care
And find the sweetest treasure there;
Dark little fruits, sun-warmed and fine,
With purple hands and lips like wine.

No sign was there, no smooth park seat,
No tidy path beneath our feet,
No railing, bench, no careful plan
To tidy up what nature ran.

The creek was rough, the creek was real,
With scratch and stain and mud to feel;
It gave us more than pretty views—
It gave us joys we did not choose.

But now the place is trimmed and neat,
With settled paths and resting seat;
The weeds are gone, the berries too,
And all is safe and planned for you.

And yes, it’s nice, as people say,
To make things clean and clear away;
But must we smooth each wild old place
Till nothing free is left a trace?

Must every bank be tamed and pruned,
Each ragged patch reshaped and groomed,
Till children only learn to see
A world kept neat, not bold or free?

For something precious has been lost
When wildness bows to polish’s cost:
The sharp-sweet berry, small and black,
And all the simple wonder back.

So leave some corners unarranged,
Unmanicured and unexchanged;
For not all beauty should be planned—
Some must be found by heart and hand.

Poems: Blackberries from the Store

And now I buy them from the store,
In little tubs, and nothing more;
Great glossy berries, big and proud,
Displayed beneath the market crowd.

They look so handsome, plump and fine,
As if their sweetness should be mine,
But one sharp bite is often enough
To find them firm and sour and tough.

They’re bred to travel, stack, and keep,
To wait in boxes, chilled and deep;
They’re chosen more for size and show
Than for the taste we used to know.

They must be firm, they must not bruise,
They must survive the roads they use;
So they are picked before they’re through,
Before the sun can sweeten through.

And that is why their flavour fades,
Why bitterness so often stays;
They last the journey, well enough,
But lose the softness and the stuff.

The wild ones, smaller, darker, strong,
Held summer’s very heart along;
They ripened fully where they grew
And gave their richest self to you.

Their sweetness was not childhood’s dream,
Nor memory dressed in golden gleam;
They truly held a deeper taste,
Untamed by profit, size, or haste.

For fruit once grown to suit the shelf,
Gives something less of its true self;
And what arrives so hard and neat
May fill the punnet, not the sweet.

So now I know what I have missed
Is not just thorn and purple wrist,
But flavour left to ripen slow,
The kind that only wild things know.

The Shape That Lets Them Grow

A child needs more than freedom’s call,
More than no boundaries at all;
For wild does not mean left alone,
Untaught, unheld, or overthrown.

The woods are free, yet not unmade;
Each growing thing accepts its grade.
The river runs within its bed,
Not spilling wild through fear or dread.

The tree stands fast because its root
Holds firm beneath the stem and shoot;
The branch may bend, the leaves may play,
Because the trunk will hold their way.

The cliff is edged, the bird must learn
Which winds to trust and when to turn;
The seasons keep their ancient round,
And life grows strong by what is bound.

So children too need shape and care,
A steady voice, a presence there;
Not bars that choke, nor chains that bind,
But loving form to train the mind.

They need to know where “no” must stand,
And feel the strength of guiding hand;
For safety felt, and order known,
Give courage for the world unknown.

A child well held will farther roam
When trust has made a living home;
And from that place of rightful peace
Can test the world by slow degrees.

For discipline, when rightly done,
Does not eclipse the childlike sun;
It gives a bank, a path, a frame,
In which delight and daring flame.

Not every fence is there to kill
The joy of climbing up a hill;
Some boundaries, quietly understood,
Make space for lively, growing good.

So let them laugh and let them try,
With earth below and open sky;
But give them truth they learn to keep—
Roots running strong and banks running deep.

For children flourish, bold and wise,
Not where all living order dies,
Nor where control has stopped the breath,
But where love’s shape outgrows its death.