Berries in the Hedgerow, Bulls in the Fields
- laura weymouth
I remember a song, or my mother remembers it--
Sometimes I can’t tell where my memories end and hers begin.
In it, my grandmother sings
Reedily, and in German, about boys and other mothers
And the warnings that they give--
Of dangerous men, of straying from the faith of your fathers, and of the more mundane
Berries in the hedgerow, bulls in the fields.
It’s a strange song for bedtime, dissonant against the backdrop
Of warm milk and warmer blankets,
And it ends, as so many of my grandmother’s stories do,
In death--
With a boy whose berry-stained lips breathe last words of regret,
A poisoned wish that he’d heeded his mother’s words.
But I’m no boy with berry-stained lips.
I remember the words of my mother, and her mother, and far across the Atlantic to the other
mothers who came before.
When I clear the back meadow, words in a language I no longer speak
Thrum through my veins.
All these warnings are in my blood—of
Berries in the hedgerow, bulls in the fields.
When I come across a nightshade plant, I pull it up carefully, by the roots.
I show it to my daughters, letting them mark those red berries, those inviting purple blooms.
And I tell them stories of boys gone astray.
This is the legacy I have to give—warnings
Of dangerous men, of straying from the faith of your foremothers, and of the more mundane
Berries in the hedgerow, bulls in the field.
My stories end now, as so many of my grandmother’s did,
In death.
But I am older, and I know why these stories of darkness and nightshade
Are the ones we give to our daughters.
It is so they won’t shy away from shadows—so they will grow strong and brave
Recognizing dark and danger,
Fearing what should be feared
And walking fearlessly past the rest.
Sometimes I can’t tell where my memories end and hers begin.
In it, my grandmother sings
Reedily, and in German, about boys and other mothers
And the warnings that they give--
Of dangerous men, of straying from the faith of your fathers, and of the more mundane
Berries in the hedgerow, bulls in the fields.
It’s a strange song for bedtime, dissonant against the backdrop
Of warm milk and warmer blankets,
And it ends, as so many of my grandmother’s stories do,
In death--
With a boy whose berry-stained lips breathe last words of regret,
A poisoned wish that he’d heeded his mother’s words.
But I’m no boy with berry-stained lips.
I remember the words of my mother, and her mother, and far across the Atlantic to the other
mothers who came before.
When I clear the back meadow, words in a language I no longer speak
Thrum through my veins.
All these warnings are in my blood—of
Berries in the hedgerow, bulls in the fields.
When I come across a nightshade plant, I pull it up carefully, by the roots.
I show it to my daughters, letting them mark those red berries, those inviting purple blooms.
And I tell them stories of boys gone astray.
This is the legacy I have to give—warnings
Of dangerous men, of straying from the faith of your foremothers, and of the more mundane
Berries in the hedgerow, bulls in the field.
My stories end now, as so many of my grandmother’s did,
In death.
But I am older, and I know why these stories of darkness and nightshade
Are the ones we give to our daughters.
It is so they won’t shy away from shadows—so they will grow strong and brave
Recognizing dark and danger,
Fearing what should be feared
And walking fearlessly past the rest.
Laura Weymouth is a Canadian living in exile in America, and the sixth consecutive generation of her family to immigrate from one country to another. Her debut novel, THE WEIGHT OF WORLDS, is forthcoming from HarperTeen in Fall 2018. You can visit her online at www.lauraeweymouth.com or her Twitter.
