Poem with a satsuma in it
There is no sunset can rival
the particular shade of its skin
no sunrise the pimpled texture
no noon-glow the zing.
There can never be too many
satsumas in poems,
each segment a stanza
every metaphor a pip.
I open a book of them
and my mouth waters
even before I’ve tasted
the opening line.
My grand-daughter
cannot say the word
just points at the fruit-bowl
more, more, more
Carole Bromley
No comments:
Post a Comment