Dewberry (Alright, blackberry) Season

Loquat season is in full swing, and now comes dewberry season, a bit late this year, almost upon us now:

What was found yesterday

After the synagogue in the area perniciously mowed down the blackberry patches two years ago just on the cusp of the year's picking season, all so that they could get to the eruv poles, the patches just haven't been the same again. The drought also really hurt them as well. Mowing continues several times a year, and I hope it won't happen for this next month, because the berries seem to be making some comeback. These were picked yesterday, while trying to avoid the large stands of poison ivy interlaced with the berries. They were very sweet.

Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

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. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.