Picking Fruit from the Lawn
Gentle thud of fruit on grass.
Nothing worse than a glut of rotting peaches
& the glint of dead brooches —
apples lit by evening silver —
to turn any householder
into dilettante or wastrel.
Each guilt trip descends in tandem
with the ones that got away
fallen on the battlefield &
grieved as much as any soldier.
In an earlier season, it’s cherries
that evade us, then grapes swaying
surreptitiously on balconies barely used.
A concerted effort is needed & a neighbour.
Last year, a friend’s son climbed into
cherry boughs bribed with a share
of the bounty. Cherry-picked as reality.
Would we feel so badly if it was plastic
from China? There’s little worse
than the decay of Earth’s green bounty
unattached to the vine.
As soon as we fall, we lose our way.
Copyright Simon Heathcote
