The Shaddock – a poem

A version of this poem was published in The Newcastle Centre for the Literary Arts Review in January 2017 here.

 

The Shaddock

 

Pomelo; plump pulp bunched at branches’ bottom,

thick limbs pulled hard, hulking legs six metres to the sky.

Moist beads swell, unpredictable prizes bred from waxed beds.

 

White flowers mislead the hungry warrior,

deceitful innocent flags

seduce the weary wanderer.

 

Each sun-setting season

expands the sweet-scented shadow,

buoys the bulbous load of pummelo.

 

Pummelo; two in thirty-two –

bitter chances with sweet survival.

The four-leaf clover flies eight times

around the world of exotic roulette.

Two truants betray thirty orange’s Adams

be careful when you bite a pommelo.

 

Pommelo; green-yellow rind ground

into molars, or salted pamplemousse.

 

Pamplemousse; purposeless production

candies the rind, rips raw flesh into strips

and dips in dark cocoa.

Eve’s forgotten apple, the elixir

of fruit’s forbidden shackles.

Shaman seeds sliced out of segments

sluice into liquor, inbred to inebriate

the uncertainty of citrus tea.

 

 

 

 

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