Oranges


Down from the ridge, hot and grateful for the little air, we paused at a plantation.


Tripping in the black shade on roots and the narrow irrigation channels.


we found seats on broken walls and – dirty with brick dust – breathed the smell of oranges.


The thought and smell of oranges in an empty valley, its squares of trees and abandoned Roman terraces.


Standing separately we gathered to go, clearing the dammed channels – leaves, a dead chick, the pulp of rotten fruit.


Then headed down out of the trees back to the permanent shade of the valley bellow.


DAVID FOSTER MORGAN


Honey


At first light there is honey, sometimes sent by friends, mostly sent by strangers. Strangers trying to trick me with their false honey – its saccharin sweetness.


At work we make honey, sometimes with joy, mostly with a kind of fear: we argue about, guard our honey; send it where it must go – with little sweetness.


At night I collect honey, sometimes it’s a duty, mostly it’s an act of love: the blossom, damp, sunlight of the day gathered, and shared with friends – its particular sweetness.


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