I'm sure there will be a lot of Seamus Heaney posts today, since he died last week. Someone posted this one on Facebook. I wasn't familiar with it, but it's perfect for the occasion, speaking as it does of impermanence and seizing the moment.
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
for a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
we trekked and picked until the cans were full,
until the tinkling bottom had been covered
with green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
like a plate of eyes.
You can read the rest, and hear it read aloud, here.
Bonus: this great story by a writer who tried - and failed - to get an interview with Heaney, but got a poem instead.
Today's roundup is hosted by Author Amok.
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