Behind half a concrete wall,
just beyond a stack of timbers,
an explosion of blackberry bushes
prayed for us to deliver them of their fruit.
In the light of dusk,
heavy black globes hung
under their own sweet weight,
while above them the reds and pinks
waited in the wings for their debut.
Waist high canes, reared in humid black dirt,
transplanted when the old gardener died
to an urban plot they share with mullein stalks,
seem to thrive in this clay and mulch.
Fresh welcome breeze sifted through
the thorny courtyard
as we stood with stained fingers
and tasted the sweetness of the night.