It’s rowed, aisled
in most places clean cut
we pick in the wild
raspberries grown freely
covered in frosted-over dew
They bleed all over our hands as they melt
and smell sweeter than ripe melon
We make baskets of our shirts
young and flat-chested,
nearly boys
our knees bruised and scabby
our hair a flop on top
Sister runs to the cliff
a flash of yellow hair and sunburnt cheeks
Waves bash angrily
wetting our bare chests
we stuff our mouths
full of berries
and jump
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