The Place Where The Berries Grow

The rising sun beckons us along a sand-dune trail
For we are going berryin', I and my little blue pail.
I hum as I pick my way along a path that I well know,
that leads to the hills of purple and blue....
the place where the berries grow.

I zig-zag through a stand of pine; their needles cloak the ground
where foot-fall, tip-toe soft, is free of sound.
hiding in the shadows the nosey, noisy crow
says he knows I'm on my way...
to the place where the berries grow.

Beyond the woods the purple hills rise to meet the sky,
and grey gulls circle overhead while a small snake wriggles by.
From the top I look around; there, far below,
is the ocean too, all purple and blue....
like the place where the berries grow.

As berries fill my pail I dream of banquets for a queen;
hot biscuits and clover honey, wild blueb'ries and cream.
All too soon, my pail replete, shows me it's time to go,
so I bid goodbye to the blue hills and sky....
and the place where the berries grow.