They Now Grow Greengages Poem by Mark Heathcote

There has been so much spilt blood
they now grow greengages, fruits without colour
plums without the pigments of kinship
that hides their ultimate hunger and desire.

As the old-guards-of-the-forest-glade die
and their young have yet still to grasp life
like stinging nettles, we must watch their pale
faces searching for a sanctuary made good.

Tears turn to amber; capture a vanishing country.
Their childhoods tore apart like a flightless paper kite
grappling with a decaying body of destruction
they fumble for limbs, the ghosts they've lost.

It's these greengages - fruits without colour-
who've tasted hollowed days that feel endless,
remorseless that they harvested? But one day-
will burn a healthy russet gold a fruitful plum again?