Lychee

 

the rush and whistle and clang and drone

   of existence outside the bristling skin

   of lychee means also thunderstorms of drink

 

thin its skin lantern-like diminutive

   in warm nights that when split

   its dark case elegantly releases

 

the whitest moon of flesh imaginable

   and inside that a sliver of seed

   with thoughts of more trees of moons

 

dropping into leaf-rich earth

   while lychee’s rose-like fragrance reaches

   upward into the near musical air

 

best before aroma and shape and colour fade

   cold in syrup with white ice-cream

   on an otherwise calm warm ordinary day 

Pomegranate

eat of the pomegranate and be glad

   for that other tree in the garden

   may bring you to sadness or madness

 

admire the lacquered red of the pomegranate

   select design of temple cloth and stone

   amidst glorious present shapes of earth

 

prise open and enjoy the pomegranate’s beads

   fleck and tang on tongue and mind

   forgetful a while either of need or death

 

listen to the modest scale of the pomegranate

   budding anew from immemorial

   unheard by the world’s noisy power play

 

take in the scent of the opened pomegranate

   intended beauty suffusing breath

   refusing thoughts of apathy or despair

 

 

Genesis 2: 9

1 Kings 7:20 

Pitaya

now the flaming green wings

   and rubicund circumference of the dragon

   might be a sight to draw awe or fright

 

and being smooth to touch curved and rubbery

   not mailed or plate-scaled or fire-breathing

   tests expectations and analogies

 

yet is neither exploding hand grenade

   nor tasselled psychedelic boombox

   split with a cleaver or tomahawk

 

it’s cactus its compacted aroma

   quintessence of tropic rainfall

   inside out of great scale persistent heat

 

its contracted reservoir mild sweetness

   anodyne soothing like so much to be said

   the opposite of what we assumed

 

Tomato

 

don’t put off for tomato what’s up today

   pull from the punnet starting to leaf

   and push into compost of total belief

 

yesterday today and tomato

   transcribes genetic patterns year to year

   human chat prizing their ready progress

 

tomato and tomato and tomato

   readier than ever bursts its bonds

   rounder and sounder and under wonder

 

the forecast for tomato is variable

   with areas of soft around the edges

   sunny disposition and increasingly wet

 

all said and done tomato is another day

   olé bouquet of creamy soup

   fruity beauty of salad sandwich 

Cantaloupe

 

the gigantic planet that rolled into

   sight amidst countless comparables

   across the counter of the fruttivendolo

 

its decidedly contiguous net of crust

   a braille sun and water imprinted

   for the likes of those thirsty for flesh

 

sliced in half daybreaks

   pale orange life inside lime haloes

   scent promising sweetest flows

 

and suddenly a self-made bowl

   90% water 10% incomparable

   tender presence fanta soup

 

cantaloupe a set of syllables looping

   cantering in the air

   of this one and only world 

Lemon

when life gives you lemons

   your view is simply golden

   that was unfolding green

 

life when you lemons gives

   sours the fish to perfection

   and tangs the meringue

 

you when lemons life gives

   sing like a gin and tonic

   something super sonic

 

gives life lemons when you

   think about it the pip

   plopped in pots for new surprises

 

lemons you life gives when

   their scent’s a sign god-sent

   tingling like lemonade

Pear

in ‘fruit in a chinese bowl’

   hockney’s pear is flat green

   easily mistaken for an avocado

 

to eat a pear for free

   knowing it tastes three million

   english pounds is our own business

 

banksy has a pair of nostrils

   for detecting things on the nose

   but is not known for painting pears

 

while arcimboldo’s noisy fruttivendolo

   has a pear for a nose

   and a face we could munch for lunch

 

and nothing much touches

   the most famous pears of cézanne

   square there teasing our primal instincts

 

 

i.m. David Hockney 11th of June 2026

 

 

 

 

 

Banana

 

visually why there is a curve a smooth

   bend to the fruit is answerable

   via your average online search but why

 

aurally why the unpeeling

   is almost soundless has very rarely

   been discussed on nature programs

 

tactilely why so has something to do

   with the hard inedible outer

   protecting the soft white edible inner

 

olfactorily why all factors really say

   to the sense safe rather than not in this case

   is a case of habit and mind over matter

 

sensorily why the taste and texture evolved

   into this uniquely sweet meal

   is anyone’s guess now your turn

 

Kiwifruit

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

 

Orange

 

a range of o so many catch the eye

   secure in socket sizing the day

   their colour a name all pre-arranged

 

orchard breeze of every language lifts

   tang skin dynasties hold compact aroma

   release as real peel deals uncurl

 

under wraps an octagon obtains else

   pithy decahedron boats torn from moorings

   else fingernails dodecahedrons dissect

 

their stark materials sharp curvaceous dulcet

   squelch harmoniously along the nervous system

   like favourite familiar tunes into the dark

 

eating segments opens sounds close in mind

   growing up fast laughing all the way

   picking a flower on this fantastic day

Apple

 

grew to the exact weight and balance to fall

   turned on its axis in the wind sufficient to fall

   here where it rests in a thankyou bowl like a still life

 

cool as to touch and that way for weeks of time

   colours over every curve soft to disappear

   an invitation to bite and bright till they’re gone

 

once bitten twice why not the scent of airy wood

   is it or watery flesh or bitter or sweet it is

   to the last mouthful the scent of our world

 

the crunch the head inside hears the chop chomp

   intimations of mortality inimitable

   serendipitous bitesize gulps  

 

tasting belonging to be and the longing to be

   going on forever a taste of this airy world

   fresh acidic sunny tart champagne

 

 

 

Grapes

called red but regularly polished black or dried blood

   they bubble a languorous still life

   freak storms could have drowned to oblivion last summer

 

yet tousled searching for the best ones they lob and huddle

   bobbled they are plastic fluid to the fingertips

   gripping to stems and tugged loose with a bend

 

dewy mornings suffuse their surfaces

   the faintest hint of young wine comes and goes

   that could have been their surfeit in a vat

 

instead of such fate they burst readily in the mouth

   turning their fair share of moisture to the good

   and sweetness textbook adjectives strive to match

 

their skins mingle in the multitudinous juice

   drawing up sediment oddments and pips lips spit out

    into the fond recycle of air and earth