I picked up the pear from
the ground,
the dark earth clinging to
its soft body,
and imagined taking the pear
home with me,
gently washing it under
the tap
and christening it
in a perfect round bowl
of silver paint,
to take back to the orchard
to see what the other pears
would make.
And some might say: ‘yes,
‘time is wearing on us too,
‘and we’ll soon fall to
‘meet the ground
‘and bruise.’
And some,
still hanging from the
branch and fresh,
might not bear the thought
of old, worn flesh
rotting in the leaves, the
hand picking up
and squashing it with ease,
and wish instead for
something silver
(glimpsed through this
imaginary cleft)
to cover its surface in its
comforting swell.
And standing there, my
silver pear lifted
to the light, the silver
paint began to drip, drip
onto the orchard floor;
and as the paint began to
drip the flesh began to
re-emerge from under the
silver sheen
and I saw the comfort this
had all been
as what it was; nothing
more than distant
astral dreams,
far from the stony, earthy pear
and its salvation prayer
in the orchard
where no-one comes
anymore
and which is full of death.
Life in this orchard is like
the dirt
clinging to the pear or
the pear
clinging to the branch;
and realising this I
dropped the pear
and left the silver dream hanging
in the air.
The leaving, the dropping, the scattering
the various kinds of end;
the emptying of the room,
sandwiches and cut-fruit
wrapped in tinfoil to keep fresh,
notes buried in coat pockets,
memories of the dead
leaves whipped up in a frenzied breeze
and longings left unsaid;
these are the weight in my hand
at the end.
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