Figs and stuff
Where sea is field and field is slow
the sky is gentle sufferance
a waste of beaten gold
and olive trees root their hold
host pure cicada chirring.
We twist ripe figs from spatulate leaves,
milky sap trails on our palms,
peel the green skin back in strips
and bite into the softened flesh
through fuschia cilia sunk in jam,
swallow the flower, its glut of seed
swallow the flowing field
where sea is gold and sky is slow
and fruit swells with our singing,
grows sweeter every evening.