I picked my first wild blackberries on my way back to the flat. They stained my fingers purple. Most are not ripe yet, but there were a few, just opposite M.’s window that were black and shiny. I had them for breakfast. They tasted sweet, but not too and soft.
There was a half-eaten fig on the path through the cemetery.
I saw the man with his rucksack again this morning. I think he sleeps rough. He walks slowly. A man with no intent, no aim, no goal but survival. I wish him warmth, food and safety. x
