In the absence of blackberries

Poetry by Christian Ward

what buds on the tongue
is the unproven dough
of a morning, blue
as your first-kissed body.

You try and conjure the waterfall
of a running tap, colander fat
with the day's haul, a mouth
stained with joy. But this is central
London and there are trains

of people longer than any hedgerow.
What hits at the back of the throat
is a necessary reminiscence:
acidic, bitter…