Fruit rots
In her garden
and she can only lie in her bed
smelling as distasteful as the crippled berries
and wrinkled pears
which buzz
under the big yellow eye
she can see it
watching her through the window
and thinks how it reminds her
of a cheap brash brooch
pinned to a pale blue silk Kimono
she lies as still as a lizard
imagining the jams and chutneys
she'll do next year
and of how she'll pick the fruit
and place it in jars
dressed in pretty gingham hats
and smart white vests
but as autumn layers creep
like soft grey voile
and cool cotton air
spreads itself
she stays stuck
between the sheets
the rot has set
all she can do
is decay
