Strange Bedfellows [06]: Goldilocks Was Here

Goldilocks Was Here

A tiny seed thing pops   
from a warm crease of skin
as I turn over in bed.
All thoughts of sleep are plundered.  
I roll the pip round and round
on the cushiony centre of my thumb,
and let my imagination sleepwalk
through the linen-scented darkness.    
This is no dried mouse-dropping,
neither is it the carapace of a black beetle.
I’m sure it’s an apple seed.
Maybe from a Cox’s Orange Pippin?
Yet, we never eat apples in bed.
He hates apples, except in a crumble,
or, an Eve’s Pudding.
I only ever buy four apples.
I lay them in the glass bowl on the kitchen table,
till their skins dull and wrinkle,
then, I replace them.
I’ve no mind of the pip till dawn light
dusts the moth orchid on the window sill,
and sets the fruit bowl aglow.
Three, lucent apples – Golden Delicious.
So perfectly golden.
So irresistibly delicious.
My porridge cools as words from childhood
land with a thud, unexpected as windfall.
‘Someone’s been sleeping in my bed,’
says Mummy bear.

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