Fruit Rots

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