Show Hide image Poetry 24 October 2014 "The Berries": a new poem by Kathleen Jamie Sign up for our weekly email * Print HTML When she came for me through the ford, came for me through running water I was oxter-deep in a bramble-grove glutting on wild fruit. Soon we were climbing the same sour gorge the river fled, fall by noiseless fall. I mind a wizened oak cleaving the rock it grew from, and once, a raptors’ mewl. Days passed – or what passed for days, and just as I’d put the whole misadventure down to something I ate, she leapt – twice, thrice, my sick head spun, and here we were: a vast glen ringed by snow-peaks, sashaying grass, a scented breeze, and winding its way toward us that same world-river – its lush banks grazed by horses, horses I knew she’d leave me for, right there, her own kin – no use my pleas, no use my stumbling back down to where the berries grew, because this is what I wanted; so all I could do was brace myself and loosen my grip from her mane. Kathleen Jamie is the author of several collections of poetry, including The Overhaul (2012), and two volumes of essays, Findings (2005) and Sightlines (2012). › Fevers and mirrors: the surreal graphic novels of Charles Burns Subscribe This article first appeared in the 15 October 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Isis can be beaten More Related articles How A Series Of Unfortunate Events went from a children’s book to a postmodern masterpiece Counting the ways: what Virgin and Other Stories teaches us about want What can a new book of Holocaust testimony tell us about the Third Reich?