General

The brambles burst forward with sweet black berries, their flavour a perfect balance of boldness and subtlety. As we pick and eat our fingers become a deep purple, the juice soaking so wonderfully into our skin. When it comes time to head home we will have enough to make a pie, yet we will also be comfortably content with the feast nature has given.

General

The brambles are both obvious and hidden. There are the high bushes with their unripe green fruit, hard and blending into the leaves. And then there are the runners that grow outwards in the grass. Their thorns are meaty things, not feeble like a thistle and even stronger than a rose. They are as sharp as a claw and cut just as fast and deep. This passage way is not a place for barefoot walking or even open toed sandals, no, this place for thick soled boots that go right up your calf.

By larastaples, October 22, 2014.
General

'Brambles' to me sounds like such a friendly word, cuddly almost, like the name of a pet rabbit. It doesn't quite conjure up the thick drooping branches covered with large woody thorns, each of which is strong and sharp enough to draw large droplets of scarlet blood as it stabs you with ease, hooking into your skin. It doesn't suggest how your legs will look after blackberry picking, like you've had fifty lashes around the calf muscle. To me the brambles are like a well armed malicious octopus, tempting you with the berries then gleefully maiming you as you come to get them.

By robertgreen, October 27, 2013.