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I pull to the east

pull my body to the west

peer through the window,

at the morning,

know that I am blessed.

 

Outside a bush where raspberries grow,

tender and pink on the branch,

make hurried thoughts, go slow.

 

Why do these patterned beauties

pull at me so?

Because they come from inside me –

delicate, rare, short-lived, fragrant.

 

Those soft berries

are my mother, my lovers private offerings

and most of all they remind me of a small often visiting pain.

 

They are my heart, tender, (tiny)

sweet, everyone’s heart. Wild, untutored, gorgeous.

 

And when you see them in a mess,

a tart or pavlova,

on a plate,

sprinkled all over,

think of my heart,

think of me; we.

 

Robert Karl Harding

Autumn 2012