Peach
Coal of fire, velvet furred,
a bullet in its black heart.
Soft flesh barnacled
to hard stone.
Bite into that pulse,
that sponge of moist sun.
Colour floods the mouth
citrus gushes, bursts
a brief light show,
mashing sweet pulp.
Fingers, wet with the miracle
are worthy of a lick.
All that’s left is
a folding away of lips.
A drying of hands.
The last ghost of flavour.
Copyright © Colin McGuire 2014
McGuire is a Scottish poet, from Glasgow, who has recently published a pamphlet with Red Squirrel Press, titled: ‘Everybody lie down and no one gets hurt’. You can read more of his poetry at: http://a-glaswegian.blogspot.co.uk
The Open Mouse 