Remarkable how well I can remember
the taste and texture of fresh raspberries!
The Spring sun, returning each September,
startles awake these childhood memories.
The ceanothus hums anew with bees
as it did on our old front lawn back then;
though both tree and bees were very long gone
when I went back to that good home to see,
fifty years later. And while path, fence, lawn,
One has to love raspberries to grasp the full meaning
ReplyDeleteThey remain in the landscape of your mind. And there's that warning in your poem--when bees are gone, the fruits of the earth will leave too.
ReplyDeletesometimes revisiting a place after a long time brings disappointment yet change is the law of life...could feel the pain of loss..."not one raspberry." our nemesis..
ReplyDeleteAlways so poignant, to return to our childhood homes. Loved this, Rosemary. Loved your feature today, too, so much!
ReplyDeleteThis is moving, Rosemary. So sad that the raspberries are not there any more. Sometimes it is very hard to go back to one's former homes. That is one reason why I very seldom will go back to my childhood home.. I want to remember things as they were then & hope they are still the same.
ReplyDeleteOh this is beautiful! It's always so touching when we re-visit old memories 💕
ReplyDeleteOh that nostalgia..lovely write,
ReplyDeletethe pricking of memorable savory moments keep us resilient when battling times of 'sad and lonely'. gracias
ReplyDeleteThe ceanothus hums and the raspberries sing..what a wonderful revisitation.. it is good to have a good home to go back to
ReplyDeleteHedgerow fruit that delight of childhood for everything we think we gain we lose a little too.
ReplyDeleteHow good to read this poem again and be reminded of sweetness!
ReplyDeleteOh, I do love raspberries I could eat a quart of them today! I need to taste some sweetness.
ReplyDeleteI particularly love the raspberries you can pick alongside gravel-roads... Sunwarm, small and sweet.
ReplyDeleteThey sound wonderful! Raspberries don't grow wild in Australia. Blackberries sometimes do, but are regarded as a noxious weed,. destructive to native vegetation. (But people love to get the fruit all the same.)
DeleteThankyou for reminding me of some of my own memories of such delights, and a delight to read your poem.
ReplyDeleteFor me it's blackberries. My daughter and I used to pick them every day, a couple of houses (and one state) ago. :(
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful poem, full of life's simple joys. I can see this, and smell it.
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ReplyDeleteThe theme was WELL covered and poetically :)
DeleteI can the vines covering with hope every corner of life yet hope is losing its hold...bkm
ReplyDeleteI fully identify with the raspberries. My nephew, when he was about eight, came to visit for a week. I had a huge raspberry patch as part of the garden. He asked if I would make a pie from them. I told him if he did the picking, I'd do the baking. We had raspberry pie, eight days in a row, until he went home. He's in his late forties now, and I still occasionally bake him a raspberry pie. He hides them, so he doesn't have to share and we laugh about all of it.
ReplyDeleteElizabeth
A lovely bittersweet reminder that we can never - REALLY - go home again. Wonderfully rendered.
ReplyDeleteYet the raspberries will be with you always...in your heart...
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