Blackberries

Walking through a darkened wood
Along a trail of long dead leaves
I see her there, small bag at hand
To place gently in the precious yield
As the time has come it seems.

She stops to stand amid thick bushes
Thorns rip at her like thieving hands
Pulls down lengths of tangled stems
Holds them tightly in her fingers
So they can't escape again.

A prick
The hands have drawn her blood
It matters not so on the ground it falls
Wasted to the blackened soil
As she takes home another days work.