Third Prize Poem

2016 Open Poetry Competiton

The Windfalls' Complaint - by Terence Jones - Herts

Just when we are at our most ripe,
what do you think happens? The stalks
we cling to no longer take our weight,
snap and we fall.
Some of us will sustain a stabbing:
a foraging pigeon is all
it would take for a cruel lesion.
If not there will be a bruise
on impact and punctured skin
might weep and a brown rot suffuse.

Once upon a time we would have been
collected as prizes when a dish
of baked apple drew a family in.
But now, the houses emptier,
pieces like us are not worth saving,
at least, not this season.

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