• 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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