A blackberry is the colour of a painful bruise on the upper arm, some internal organ as yet unnamed. It is shaped to fit the tip of the tongue, to be a thimble, or a dunce cap for a small mouse. Sometimes it is home to a secret green worm seeking safety and the power of surprise. Sometimes it plunks into a river and takes on water.
Fishes nibble it.
The bushes themselves ramble like a grandmother's sentences, giving birth to their own sharpness. Picking blackberries must be a tactful conversation of gloved hands. Best to be on the safe side, the outside of the bush. The flavour is its own reward, like kissing the whole world at once, rivers, willows, bugs and all, until your swollen lips tingle. It's like waking up to discover the language you used to speak is gibberish, and you have never really loved.