Sport 26: Autumn 2001
Seeds
Seeds
She gathering from a bowing tree a ripe Powngarnet, tooke
Seven kernels out and sucked them.
—Ovid, Metamorphoses, 1567
On the outside it is a difficult fruit,
pale green, knobbled, and awkward to hold.
You are tempted by no promised sweetness,
it is easy to resist,
Let me spilt it for you.
You see, honeycombed in this bitter green fruit
are cloying pink droplets.
Take a seed, break it open on your tongue.
Now you have eaten
you will stay.
You will leave your mother
in her wooden sea-view house.
I may let you return for some months of light.
But even when the days are windy bright
and your lips taste of salt and oysters,
I will be with you.