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.





