It is the age that commands it:
The seeking out of each succulent bit,
The subtle piecing together of each segment
Into one prize-winning fruit
So that one would be hard put
To find the incision and slit
That saw the start of the movement
That once unpeeled the perfect fit.
It is a time of golden fullness:
The careful placing on mantelpiece
And table of bowl-filled complacence:
Outcomes of an age of ripeness
That draw vibrancy from the juice
Of experience which bubbles
Deep beneath unfettered worlds of bliss
And circulates to core and node their status.
It is the time when looks of consternation
Are cast on those whose coda lacks preparation,
On those who search an orangery of confusion
For the fruits of some earlier integration.
For these there can be no citric re-formation:
All is pith, pip and peel, -devastation.
‘My curse was an orange deflection
That held me in thrall to the sun’,
I cry out, cut sharply by the derision.