The Orange
A poem inspired by Wendy Cope, and a love of ordinary things.
I saw an orange at the Tate Modern,
It was cast in polyurethane,
Carved and hand-painted,
Tender and untainted,
An eager imitation of the mundane.
I saw two segments of a tangerine,
On a jostling Jubilee line train,
I smiled wistfully,
Blinked in sympathy,
And hoped we’ll someday be whole again.
Crates of clementines outside the Co-op,
Canopied from October rain,
Remind me of tea,
Ginger and honey,
My sister brewed to soothe the pain.
Last Christmas we dried cinnamon and citrus,
Those miniature suns
Weren’t the only ones,
Dappled
in the darkness.
Wendy coped so I can quote,
“I love you. I’m glad I exist.”
As long as you’re sulking in the seams of my stocking,
I won’t wonder what I would have missed
About the Creator
Eleanor Horne
Part-time earthling, full-time daydreamer.
London, UK
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By Eleanor Horne3 years ago in Fiction
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