Plum Tree Court
Posted: 19 November 2013 Word Count: 253 Summary: A poem about a derelict building in the middle of corporate East London. Within it, lies a garden of plum trees, long forgotten.
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The smell is crisp first, to match the leaves But dark fruit rots in layers underneath. Hugging concrete, the salt and pepper screen
Of a sky lets up a little. Men stop Mid-march, to breathe the fruit in. Indulgent Snorts of fruit-rich air, plump as summer sun,
Inhaled before diving under a tower. You buy a house, then avoid its old clock- Counting only clients on a time sheet.
You live as if you're dying in a minute. Parched, crackless faces of chalk frame the old Window. You're looking at more windows. Black
torrents of typeface replace your children. Their names are but keys in a safe, bound tight By a lock in a gilt-edged solvent bond.
'Daddy' is a word tossed around, a bright Shiny coin to feed them with. How silly. How impressive. Your hands age. Before long,
Your heart. The climb is rank with stranger's sweat- A hot-faced CEO cooped up in the Bahamas While you and the leather bound briefcase sit.
And wait. Buried beneath the earth it is. Gravity. The throbbing, soundless weight of it Swallows you down. Following the stone
Through crusts of red earth, to your signature. A name and digital dynasty left in your wake. And the vultures come to cut
Eachother. A small boy lines the estate with white handfuls of light, indiscriminate ash.
And the plum trees stick their roots in ochre Sucked dry. Their vines, from emerald fade slowly. Beige leaves, the pale feathers of a bird.
Get out of its way.
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