The gooseberry

I might never have known this fruit
it is not found in the markets
it is not found anywhere
but on the boggy island
in the tall marsh grass blown
against the high sea-facing boulders
where sheep once grazed
ferried out in summer
on open wooden boats
their dingy fleece
as full of life as the sea
tangled with living twigs

I might never have stumbled across it
knees sunk in the peaty earth
where the bushes were low and dense,
all twisted limbs and thorns
and small lobed leathery leaves
folded grayish green
red and crisp and the edges
burnt by august sun

the weeping stems
rooted wherever they touch the ground
but lightly, borne on wiry lace

only by not moving
and looking without knowing
what I would see, did I see them
emerge, shyly at first
then in their eager numbers
the tiny garnet globes
hanging like lanterns
translucent, faintly fogged
as if by inner warmth
on the jade-ribbed skin
the papery tassels below
they tumbled down at a touch

and the taste—musky and tart
luscious and slightly off
like nothing else on earth
I think I could never eat enough