Him on her
apples, little earths
of laughtered kisses
of words that tickle
of giggle flesh
deep red and green
or change in colour
from one to the other
or pick one
Your apricots, peaches
a predatory sweetness
invites the unwary
as you feel slightly soft
and pull away easily
swell to full size and turn
a shiny blue-black
incise deep past
the mantel to core
molten with sweet
over your tongue
out of the flesh
out of the month
through holes in the bones
Picked Apple, woodbride,
you tend gardens with skill,
devoted to orchards’ care,
love fields and branches
laden with ripe apples,
carry a curved pruning knife,
cut back scraggy growth,
lop limbs spread too far,
split bark, insert a graft,
provide sap from different stock
for trees bairns.
Will not suffer them being parched, waters twining tendrils o’ their thirsty root. This is your love, your passion,
no need of lust. Workaholic, closed yourself off in an orchard, posted a notice, ” No Men Allowed”.
Her on him
glance and you’re a scraggy girl darkened in denim,
a bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,
I wake up to a tupped shepherd,
come back to a wick carjacker.
Your everyone else, but yourself.
I can’t pin you down,
you’re my turning year,
the first grape that darkens
on the purpling bunch,
the spiky corn-ear that swells
with milky grain; near my toes
you’re sweet cherries, autumn plums and a mulberry redder
in the summer,
a change in the weather,
a new set of clothes,
an alteration in the air,
and I love you.
His seduction of her
You were a challenge. I knew as I
could never impress you as myself.
Too young, no prospects.
Men have to invent
themselves to get anywhere.
I wanted to see you all the time.
So I turns up at your door a rude farmer
brought you a basket
filled with ears of barley.
Next, my forehead bound with freshly cut hay, as I might have been tossing new-mown grass.
“Sorry. No men. Busy.”
Another day I were lumping a horses
bridle in my stiff hand, so that you would swear I had just unyoked a weary team.
“No stables. Goodbye!”
With a knife I were a female dresser
and pruner of vines: “No vines
here. I’m busy.”
Sometimes I’d carry a ladder
as if a Window cleaner.
“No windows here. Goodbye.”
A scraggy girl darkened in denim,
begging a bunch of wildflowers
for her mam and you said.
“Nothing wild in this garden, girl.
Sorry, mowed them all down
A bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,
“Sorry. Read the notice. No men allowed.”
The Old Lass
I wrap my head with a coloured scarf,
lean on a staff, sprout grey hair, wrinkled
as a decaying fruit, caved in hollows,
thin skin, fungus faced, moles, brown blotches, sour breath, stink of stale piss lingers, and a small spiky moustache.
She lets me in her well-tended garden, to admire the fruit
and the fruit of her
is a Pear’s sweetness salves a searching tongue,
a Peach’s blush like sunrise
a Plum’s scent entices, smooth and laughing,
a Cherry’s scarlet lips rain sodden
a blossoming branch
makes bees dance
a secret orchard
‘You are so much more lovely’, I snog her.
I sit on the flattened grass,
look at the branches
bend weighed down with fruit.
Vine and Tree
There is an elm opposite,
with gleaming bunches of grapes.
I tell her with my ancient voice.
“Remarkable tree, and its entwining vine.
But, if that tree stood there, unmated, without its vine, it wouldn’t be sought after for more than its leaves, and vine also, which is joined to and rests on the elm,
will lie on the ground,
if it were not married to it, and leaning on it.’
You reply “It is a tree. Marriage means nothing to me.”
” A thousand men want you,
you shun them, turn away
from their wooing.
But if you are wise,
if you want to marry well,
listen to me, an old lass,
as loves you more than you think,
more than them all, reject others
and choose Change to share your bed!
You have my pledge as well:
he’s not better known to himself
than he is to me: he does not wander
hither and thither, lives by himself
and he doesn’t love latest girl he’s seen.
You’ll be his first love, and his last.
He’ll devote his life only to you.
He’s young, blessed with natural charm,
can take on a fitting appearance, if needs be. Whatever you want,
though you ask for all of it,
he will do.
He doesn’t want fruit of your trees,
or sweet juice of your herbs:
he needs nothing but you.
Take pity on his ardour,
and believe that he,
who seeks you,
is begging you,
in person, through my gob.
I’ll tell you the tale
of Stone Lass
“Spunk sees Cruel lass from afar
gobsmacked by her looks
he gets smitten hard
and determines she’ll be hooked
Asks her mates for her mobile number,
and all her social media pages,
scours internet for details,
winds himself up in rages.
Gets his message through once
or twice but she mocks him
” Fancy me. You do right. I’m gorgeous”
and promptly blocks him.
Finds her home and knocks
and her Dad answers and says
“She don’t want to know, son.
Thinks your a stalker. Away!”
Writes his first letter and posts
it personally through her door,
it tells her she’s won and he’ll be gone
she can celebrate and more
she can see him lose his life
which is all he has left for her.
Cruel scoffs at this but goes along
for the crack and laughter.
She sees him throw a rope
already knotted around a beam
put his neck in the noose
and let out a scarifying scream.
Then she feels herself harden
calcified flesh and bone
she is a statue.”
Picked Apple has no reaction.
Change thinks stuff it
and becomes himself
young, virile and fresh.
Picked Apple falls hard for him.
via WordPress for Phone app.