Poem – Tony Beyer

Persimmons

I never took to the taste
a dry sweetness like that now of memory

but the exotic magic of having them
swelling to dusky orange on our front lawn

their lobes dull lamps among leather leaves
their name an instance of the arcane

and personal vocabulary of childhood
I was surprised to find shared

and even mis-spelt on a greengrocer’s board
from the bus in the tendentious city

can reinstate for me
a sky the thick matt blue of billiard chalk

and persimmons set square below the branch
their corners rounded smooth like those

of a radio of the period
broadcasting perhaps the warbler

whose task it is to sew the morning together
with bright decisive stitches of sweet song

fine accompaniment for sunlight
in the shape of fruit made flesh

 

Tony Beyer

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