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.
Our Poem of the Week submissions are now open for September, on the theme of It’s The End of the World As We Know It – click on link to the call for submissions page for more details.
We are accepting submissions for our other regular features: MONOGRAPH (a group of poems by a single author) and New Voices (poets aged 18-30 who have yet to publish a full collection).
Please read the full requirements on our Submissions page, before sending your work.
Featured Image: Source
