• David Sunderland

The Fruit Bowl

How sad, it seemed

That morning new

When reaching in

Among fruits few


Picking out the orange soft

White and grey, the mould aloft


Then cast aside, in silver bin

Lid closed, a clang, like fleeting sin


My hand goes for the second fruit

Squashed desire now quite moot


Like a feeling, spoilt quite rotten

Cast away, in an instant forgotten


So easily ignored, all colours mixed

Monochrome seemingly gets all fixed

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© 2019 by David Sunderland