The Fruit Basket (Poetry)

Once the crackling cellophane was stripped away
a sweetness rose to greet her — a ripe tang
of promise that flushed skin would yield to teeth
and juice spring forth to sate her lusting tongue.

A bloom was on the grapes — they seemed to pulse
their purple invitation — beg their case —
fresh from some sun-drenched Tuscan vine —
that warmth still in their summer-drowsy pendula.

Apples turned their country maiden cheeks
full of comely blushes — bold with smiles
from dappled orchards, nudging golden pears
freckled lightly — glowing — plump with charm.

Shy, twin peaches nestled flawless breasts
half-hidden by blue tissue paper wrap
for modesty, while nectarines showed off —
radiating colour — their solid glossy shapes

punctuating round the basket’s edge
and in the centre — like the prize — the star
a pineapple — exotic — rested proud
its oddly scaled and unappealing skin

warted ugly — a unique disguise
for all that flavour waiting — trapped within.
She read the card — his loose untidy scrawl
unpicked the scarlet bow and let it fall...

She sketched the vivid mountain — set it down
in stylized profusion — passionate
about the tones and textures —
loading oil in sympathy with flesh

organically interpreting what her eyes could see
and adding by suggesting what she felt —
the rush of love — desire in every shade
implicit — studied ecstacy — transformed

the piled-up fruit inside its wicker cage
into romantic allegory — drawn bright as any blood
and spilling out its message in still life —
the riot of it captured — thought by thought

until Art named itself — identified the dream
reflected on a canvas — love savoured in the delicate
long brush stroke of a sigh — the apple’s sheen
a quiet delight designed to tempt the wanton lip
                    and fascinate the eye.