Caravaggio’s “Boy with a Basket of Fruit”
A forbidden fruit — nourished in shadows,
Ripened between old walls of cold concrete,
Leaves — biting sharp and soft lavender.
Its soft apricital skin — a pale rose,
With stems covered in marks tender and violet,
Its pulp, a honeyed treat to be stolen.
Thumping rain — a tree with roots deep under —
A symphony — of minor taps and blows,
A bouquet of colours dim, jewelled and sweet.
The fruit — blushing — with a powdery odour:
Drops towards lovers — by the tree — woven,
Covered in hyacinths and seeing their breaths.
A moment that is savoured — a great ocean,
Undisturbed in Achilles’ apple and its depths.
