Advocado

The third day into the holiday,
with the guide ropes sagging,
she eats avocado.
Teaspoons of flesh,
decorated with pepper,
curl and press onto her oilskin tongue.

It was picked from a striped seafront stall,
checked for ripeness, texture, colour.
I watched her raspberry dress
slap with east coast wind,
hands probe the rippled fruit.

Sunbonnet babies squawk for milk
outside baked caravanettes.
I listen to the tent creak,
watch her fingers dig
and bury the slick stone.
"I love avocado," she says
curling on the grass,
planning more.