The roadside or the parkland, the field or the wood,
Your garden or your neighbour’s, both are just as good.
They scramble over bushes, take footholds, reaching long;
Their roots spread like a virus through the soil and just as strong.
Then soon the petals, like confetti, take to the air in flight;
Then sun and rain soon swell the clusters of every little drupe.
Until comes time when berries ripe, their plump and darkened flesh,
For creatures feast and birds descend, their beaks and claws do thresh
With skin that rips; the piercing thorns stab hands both right and left.
The gauze, encased with spikes so cruel, envelops every bough,
Then even when you reach the fruit, its own thorns spike you now.
Ready, primed and needle sharp, they’re spoiling for a fight.
And even if you make it through and save your blood and skin,
Beware the hair of trichomes when the nettles burn and sting.
Wear boots and coat whatever else protects you from the prick.
But when all’s said and done and you’re home and battle scarred
At least you have your trophy for a crumble or jam jars!