Peaches

Peaches

By gravel’s edge rests the sleepy farmer,
his white, resin chair tipping lazily
as he hums lazily along with the buzz-flurry of flies
that swarm around his head.
Baskets belch with greens, reds and orange,
smelling new and dirty, gleaming with sun
and begging for a touch.

The Sunday driver, with
a lust for sweetness on his
lizard tongue, will veer toward
the side, in search of nectareous
hair-trigger splendour.

Through the profusion of
glossy hues and enchanting
bouquets does his eyes come to
rest on the wonder of the peach.

Velvet orbs with feather floss
beam brightly from their bed.
Cheeky sunfire marble with
the bellybutton stem, smelling
of August and beginnings.
To the ear, there is laughter and
black night cricket chimes.

The colour has begun to bruise,
bleeding ember and flame, leaving
beautiful contusions on the skin,
like a summer dusk sky. Far more
tempting than an apple, the plumpish,
pudgy peach is a thing of passion and
paragon.

The Sunday driver cannot stand to wait,
his lust overtakes his reason,
so he sinks in his teeth, breaking the skin,
letting the sweet blood drizzle
down his squared, savage chin.
He sounds his kill with sloppy slurping.

The flesh pulls revealing the wrinkled,
ridged heart, heralding the pending death
of the summer equinox, warning of winter.