It seems daft, but we often find inspiration to write in the strangest places. . . One minute I'm sighing at the rain while grabbing an orange from the fruitbowl . . . next, I'm writing a poem . . .
It’s only an Orange
It should be enough
that the rain lands gently now.
Larch cones float on the back-green
and the stippled windowpane dulls
a grey-washed Spring.
Was that a flicker?
A single cloud stitched with silver.
Is it enough to hope for more?
One cut reveals the orange’s bleeding heart
A sunburst shot with crimson thread.
Citrus sweetness coaxes my tongue,
So why are words no longer enough?
The image forms – a Madrid morning,
the Vendedora’s voice soars high and clear
as she busks in the sun-drenched street.
‘Sanguinello, Sanguinello, Sanguinello’