Dreamily among the leaves, uneasily,
in my age, up a shining ladder
I am plucking plums – discarding those
rotten, prune-like encrusted with sugar,
or pecked at by passing tits and dunnocks.
I pass the whole, ripe ones down carefully
to my granddaughter, who holds her bowl
high as she can. You look on, pleased for us both
and concerned. Later you will place the blushed plums
in a wide shallow dish of the deepest red
adorned with foliage – and snap them
with your iphone to share with Facebook friends
and their gentle innuendo. Later still
you will pick some figs and immortalise them too.
We will get to eat the art. Another year
may pass before I mount that ladder
like some hoary angel.
Note: The poem was first published on Facebook in August 2017.