I hang. Unpicked. Ripe yet unselected.
Folded into forgotten branches that were once green, I too, have morphed, turning ripe over sunshine-filled months, metamorphosing into edible juice, a fully fledged blackberry. Wearing my best damson-rich jacket, I beam resplendently, yet, lamentably, I stay unpicked.
Even at my best, nobody wants me.
I dangle, on the verge of thorny oblivion beneath me as days shorten: the sun sets sooner; cloud cover and showers move in, replacing heady aromas of sun-cooked grass and freshly picked berries, tangy and floral.
They are the chosen ones. Godly orbits that were once friends. Now gone. Selected. Baked hot in pies, spilling from crusty, golden edges in Sunday dinner glory. Placed in the centre of the table like a prize, with human eyes drinking them in, so hungrily, with beady eyes.
For me, I stay unpicked. Unloved.
Summer turns powdery. Shade crawls in wearing a dusty grey suit, squeezing the throat of crimson sunset. I too, suffer, curling further into velveteen darkness. I am alone but cushioned, falling into tangled but silent night. Here, my thoughts churn, become more acute, heightened by the rise of the moon. Moonlight plays hide and seek with me through gorse gaps, tickling my inner seeds, as they rotate, awakened by nocturnal stirrings. Wolves howl, stalk for prey as the womb-lit moon strengthens, gathers steeliness.
Autumn bleeds to winter and my outer shell hardens, forming a brittle mantle. Near to death, I give up, ready to release the last tendrils clinging to the branch. I dance on a knife’s edge, newly sharpened. Closing my eyes, I surrender. Fall. Spill parts of me onto the frozen, unforgiving ground.
I stay this way for hours, shivering, uncovered, until a curious blackbird sets me in her sight. Pecking lightly, she tickles my macabre coat, searching for succulence within. Taking me in her mustard-flamed beak, she flies upwards, dancing in weak sunlight, as she turns me in her tiny mouth. What I have left in me, I release, fading to a shrunken skin. She toys with the casing before swallowing me down, and the light finally switches off. I rest, blinkered, life force sucked away.
I was not a chosen one, picked by a human hand, yet I rest, nestled within a blackbird’s warmth, a jewel in her stomach.
Emma is a mother and full-time writer. Her poetry has been published with various literary journals and magazines. She writes flash fiction, short stories, and novels. She is currently writing her sixth novel.
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