220th miracle is.... weasel poo

A trug of frozen apples, hard as
Quartz pebbles, catch the light
Crystal-coated, wondrous, paled
Palm-sized apple plunder

The orchard apples drop to grass
Are gathered up by tub and carted
To the freezer, frozen up, hauled out
To defrost, squash, ferment

First light halos the demi-johns
On the dining table. Tints of
Translucent yellow, tones of
Red from rose to ruby

Another resurrection
Of an ordinary day the light
Ascending through the morning
Colour gradient

Malcontent to find myself
Awake so early, until
I draw the old velvet curtains
On this panoramic anomaly

The valley is flooded with mist
The moors appear as a series
Of Caribbean pirate islands
Not where I expected to wake

This view opens my frown, it
Nudges acknowledgement, I am
Laughing at myself, at my quick

My decision is to make coffee
And sit, watching the colours
Change, outside, the pink
Underbelly of mackerel cloud

Somewhere in the fridge is a tin
Of coffee. This week we are drinking
Vietnamese Weasel. I picture the sacks
Of beans on the quayside in a monsoon wind

Maybe this started as a practical joke
But whoever ground up the beans from
The weasel’s poo was on to a good thing
Although the flavour in my cup is synthesised


Lisa Southard said…
Thank you for the follows and the +1s! xx

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