The Blackberry Bleeds

I see what you have done
hiding amongst the wide,
green leaves, your sharp beak

waiting for my back 
to be turned. I wave you away.
You won’t go far;

there is always more fruit
to pick and devour.
I gather what remains

and put it in the freezer.
Each day I clean up after you
and add it to my frozen store.

Soon there will be enough
to add sugar and boil.
Each will blend into the other

to be set in jars—washed
and warmed so as to not
crack under the molten heat

of discard. I let the jam cool,
spread it on buttery toast, 
or a cream sponge cake,

or eat it straight from the jar with a spoon,
savouring the tang. All the time knowing 
I have made something of the wounds you left behind.