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.

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