The trail to the raspberry brambles has been
hidden by weeds and grass for decades but
our bare feet know the way. Grandmother and
I gather handfuls of raspberry clusters in her
straw hat as we savour bittersweet drupelets.
Later, on the porch, as I unbraid her hair for
bed, it ripples to her waist in streaks of pink,
as if the clouds had been blooming early...
on grandfather's guitar–
she knows them by heart