Blackberrys

We always went there for our backberrys.
We called them ours, knowing no mortal claimed,
That long vast, high, and tangled wall of briars,
That now just mocked the shape of castle walls.
The rumour was that she still slept inside
The bitter spindle lodged within her finger.

Little we cared for that, we who lacked berrys.
We feared no guardian spell however famed,
Who lacked fine clothes, or charcoal for our fires,
Who slept 'neath huddled branches, not in Halls
However cursed to house a sleeping bride.
More to us always the sharp tastes that linger.

Blackberrys that burst upon the tongue,
More sweet than magic kisses to the young.