farewell to the land of luscious fruit
where apples hang like rosy pink lanterns
and pumpkins swell like pregnant farmgirls
and bunches of grapes are purple chandeliers
and succulent figs so wickedly feminine
they seem barely legal
i’m back in the land of bitter sloes
where crab apples lie wasted in the orchards
hips and haws food only for the fieldfares
and blackberries are shrivelled up and tart
but it’s always raining quinces
in my heart
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