Rare now by roads, forgotten walls,
purple drupes with slate blue sheen
or, trodden in, a yellow mush.
Its tangled cage of twigs a shock,
the fierce black energy of coils.
Small white flecks of blossom became
my grandfather’s powerful wine.
Picking from inside the crown
thread your hand through sharp, dull spikes.
The ripened fruit is bittersweet,
a potent draw for those midlife,
the best to come, the season short.
*damsons – blue black fruits similar to small plums
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