The Shaddock – a poem

The Shaddock

 

Pomelo; plump pulp bunched at branches’ bottom,

Pulling hard on thick limbs

Against the hulked leg six metres to the sky.

The swell of moist beads inside a wax case;

the breed of unpredictable bulbs.

White flowers mislead the hungry warrior,

Deceitful innocent flags to food

Seduce the weary wanderer

With a waxen green umbrella of shade

A cool break in the sweet-scented shadow of the wave-white belled petals.

What strength sucked from the soil

To rise twenty inches,

Each sun-setting season

Expand the shaded sanctuary

And bear the bulbous load of pummelo.

 

Pummelo; two in thirty-two –

A bitterly sad chance of success,

Or sweet survival.

A bite of one, of two, of thirty-two;

A luck eight times more exotic

Than the four-leafed clover.

The other thirty?

Thirty more orange’s Adams,

Thirty pommelos.

 

Pommelos; we cannot predict

Bitter, sweet, taste roulette.

Eight times more exotic

For eight years to fruit,

To taste underneath green-yellow rind.

To decide;

Discard, or salted pamplemousse?

 

Pamplemousse; so purposeless in reproduction

Candied rind, raw flesh,

Dipped in Brazil’s dark cocoa.

Or forgone, Eve’s apple, the elixir

Of forbidden Fruit’s shackles.

 

The shaddock.

Here, true magical shaman seeds,

Plucked from branches

Sliced in segments

Inebriate the senses

The uncertainty of thirty-two

Laced into liqueur.

 

Adam to the orange,

The shaddock.

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