Whenever I come across wild blackberries on my travels, I’m a Queensland kid again with grubby knees, a long plait, and salty skin, hiding half way up a bottlebrush tree in my ‘treehouse’ (a pallet wedged in the fork of the branches) reading an Enid Blyton book, which seemed to me always to be full of blackberries
In my tropical girlhood, I lived on mangoes; wild blackberry bushes existed in stories that had seasons, tower bridges, policemen with funny hats, a Queen, and houses with honeysuckle-covered doorways and thatched roofs.
Even when it’s right in front of me, that storybook place is still a treehouse dream.
Winds in the east, mist coming in,
Like somethin’ is brewin’ and ’bout to begin.
We climbed to the roof to watch the sun go down and the supermoon rise. There’s just something magic about a weather vane isn’t there? I could almost feel the wind change, could almost see Ms. Poppins march down on the wisp of a fairy floss cloud, spit spot.
Happy new moon, chim chim cheroo!