in
anzac khaki with telltale stubble
an
egg-sized time-bomb waits its moment
precious
at the pacific rim
would
a fruit by any other name taste as sweet
whether
chinese or a gooseberry
cut
open green as pounamu
roll
over pavlova a pas-de-deux
by
their fruits you shall know them
pavlov
gourmands stepping up for more
of
that smell somewhere between
arctic
and tropic depending oblong
on
the tilt of a green planet
of
that sound amidst clattery leaves
birds
abuzz depending there so long
ripening
into grateful scoopfuls
