BLACKBERRY PICKING ..... poem by Seamus Heaney analysis please?

Trying to support daughter homework but our older views of how we read this and analise it are totally different to hers and she says this will reflect in her work. Surely we are allowed to be supportive and pass on our contribution or has education changed that much that we are now banned from even doing this? ... show more Trying to support daughter homework but our older views of how we read this and analise it are totally different to hers and she says this will reflect in her work. Surely we are allowed to be supportive and pass on our contribution or has education changed that much that we are now banned from even doing this? Please help with your views and pointers please.
Update: She talks about Stanza's and has to use similies and metaphors POEM: Late August, given heavy rain and sun For the full week, the blackberries ripen. At first, just one a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine:... show more She talks about Stanza's and has to use similies and metaphors

POEM:
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For the full week, the blackberries ripen.
At first, just one a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger sent us out with milk cans, pea tins jam pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills we trekked and picked until the cans were full, until the tinkling bottom had been covered with green ones and on top big dark blobs burned like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered with thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.


We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found the fur, a Rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.The juice was stinking too. ...cont'd...
Update 2: Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would soon turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It was not fair that all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
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