The pleasure of a plum
           ripe for the plucking
ripe for the eating
           and the moment
of biting into the soft
           sweet flesh
in August
           and a crop of plenty
jam today
           and jam tomorrow
but the moist
           fruit on the palate
in that moment
           the precise reality
of it
           as though I was
born to it
           and the memory
of the sloping garden
           the tree laden
and the shade beneath it
           the child I was then
before I knew
           what a woman
really was
           but knew my tables
and could do my sums
           and had no idea
but for the present
           wiping away
the dripping juice with

           the back of my hand

John Lyons


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