Over Ringmer

Below blae whirs
of imminent rainfall
two not-too-distant
butts of voices

needled each other
leaving loose stitches
of unthreaded words
on a path above us

as your hair licked
in that same cut wind
which blew their ire
across our track

Blackberrying was
never an easy thing
with sprung thorns
and others’ sour pickings