Wild Figs

I pluck figs,
gather a handful,
juggle them to the kitchen;
they’re like coals – 
figs hotter than the blistering day.

Slicing erupts red molten cores:
I ingest fire in greedy gulps,
gorge on stars, know no tomorrow.

This poem might be regarded as work in progress. It was inspired by a recent trip to Greece. From my accommodation I could walk into the garden and down to the sea where several fig trees were laden with fruit. It was such a treat to gather my own breakfast every morning, and I eventually had to write about it. It seems to me that there was something much profounder in the simple experience of gathering fruit and eating than I could have imagined without experiencing it.