And in the Winter roar, I dreamt of Blackthorn blossom. Of lying, meadowed, beneath the lace it cuts into the blue. And later, spinning towards the high skies of a Summer's end, gathering the dusky purple cheeks of Sloes, hiding between shining spikes that could stitch together a lifelong bed. I was gazing at the slow trail of juice that drags reluctant in the gin, before the snap of collar, before the season, cellared in the dark.
Annie Kerr writes every day, finding most of her inspiration in the wild places of Britain and the quirkiness of her adopted home town of Brighton. One of her poems was shortlisted for the 2009 Bridport Prize. She blogs at http://inkhaven.blogspot.com/.