Fruit

Round and cold in my hand.
Hard as a cricket ball.
Gold and crimson stripes and speckles;
some wild animal nestles in my palm.
The scent of pear-drops, newness, home.
My grandmother’s pie-making fingers
powdered with flour, folded against her pinny.
Bramleys, Coxes, Dymock Reds.

My mouth waters.
I bite into the fruit’s perfection,
pierce the bitter skin, release sweetness onto my tongue.
A jewelled orchard rises from a lavender mist.
My childish hands gather windfall fruit.
The lazy buzz of a drunken wasp.
September promises cider, the crush of the millstone.
Costards, Codlins, Ratheripes.

“Don’t upset the apple cart” she warned.
Juice glistens on the pale green pomace.
My teeth carve peaks and valleys.
Like Eve I’ve left the garden.
Only a skeleton left, sugar stuck to my fingers.
A pip falls onto a hard floor,
exposed flesh begins to brown.
Fiesta, Summerred, Bountiful.