Mountain fruit

Mountain Fruit

By Gabriela Dimitrova

The straw-yellow grass crunches

half-notes of l ow drums on

trodden paths.

I go with the rhythm,

not wanting to seize the joy

of life in the clearing

where birds tune

to the sound

of trees and wind.

I reach first the site of red

berries. I blend in with

the thin arms of bush plants

my ears sing songs.

A twig cracks.

The air feels thin

the ehoes don’t come back.

Silence settles in.

Athought freezes my mind:

It’s too quiet

no moves, no scraping’,

I suddenly feel the thorns

finger my skin. Red spots!

Small berries speckle my digits.

I am stuck with a small basket

and a bunch of the crimson fruit, and a fear of a b

creeps glassed looks at me -
ebony fangs opened wide, and a volcano-red mouth
unleshes its writhing grey-
ashen breath on m

which seizes my legs and my throat.

I can't scream. My heart flaps

fury like a fallen bird trying to flee.

I push the low branches and stumble

across a stalker-log. I taste a wet grass

and lift my bulging eyes up.

y sister

comes out of the light and shouts,

‘Sit down, Benny, you naughty dog’,

A croaky bark settles in the furry throat-

I recognise the neighbour’s pet.

His waggly, now a black mop

of a tale brushes the dust off the leaves,

his front paws begging a pardon.

The claws of fear retreat from me

and I can hear the tweet

and the buzzing again

in the long line of sweet

red berries and bush heaven.