I want to claw my hands into the fertile loam
The plant roots and small creatures call this home

My feet squish into the moist massage
As we turn this way and that into our passage

I push the bending brambles to the side
Someone before has left markers as our guide

Ahead lays the berry shed for pickers to rest
We'll stay there for a respite from our quest

On sitting, I'll take a drink, then claw my hands
Into the fertile loam of these lush lands