There are many flavours of sorbet which are best on hot and ready lips;
one of these is mango, another is grapefruit, another is a flavour
I don’t recognise, plunged in a fruity perfume drawn
from the concert halls of Prague and Munich.
The taste of music dances regally beneath the tongue, and
with it a plague of fruit which sprouts, blooms, and buds
deep inside the baritone conservatoire.
The Virgin leads our orchard sally,
catching fresh oranges in a jug which echoes
to the beat of some sad natural drum.
The quiet salted plums explode in form
and some thief emerges, watches, then, drawn
in, begins to hum concertos which begin and end D Minor.
The farmer watches without malice from his tall and steady tractor.
by Col. Baldwüllz
