I bit into a peach,
And somehow, the sour kick
Of flesh softened by four days’ waiting
Reminded me of raspberries,
Skulking behind the fir trees of my childhood home.
We’d pinch them off like eggs from a nest,
Be on our way
Across the rocky stream dipping and tumbling to Sligo town,
Or whipped by low twigs
As we scurried between trees,
A burst football or two
Kicked to the base of each trunk.
Sometimes, kids from fields away
Would come to play
(Or cousins, measured in roads).
They’d steal a berry or two.
Today, I’ll buy my fruit in the Galway market,
Sure to pluck a Sligo face
Shining between the shoulders and scarves.
Here is where they come some Saturdays.
I’ll cross the Corrib,
Atlantic spray webbed to my window.
I play in Salthill, too,
But I’ve never found a raspberry
At the bottom of the ocean.
Copyright © Trevor Conway 2015