Picking Blackberries

Farther down the glade beyond Myrtle Creek Where, as a kid, I went hunting for raspberries, We discovered a ripening patch of blackberries Grandmother and I went there for a solid week. One early morning we heard a frightful shriek And, we didn’t stop to entertain any inquiries, Hastening out with half a bucket of ripe berries Truthfully, in our stomachs, we felt kind of weak. Grandmother’s pies were enhanced by the tale Of our sudden departure from the berry patch, And how we hurriedly left with a half-filled pail We embellished the story of our quick dispatch, Always leaving the impression, without a fail, That we had met up with a real live Sasquatch. Written July 3, 2021