On the side of the highway does the sleepy farmer sit. |
Peaches By gravel’s edge rests the sleepy farmer, his white, resin chair tipping lazily as he hums lazily along with the buzz-flurry of flies that swarm around his head. Baskets belch with greens, reds and orange, smelling new and dirty, gleaming with sun and begging for a touch. The Sunday driver, with a lust for sweetness on his lizard tongue, will veer toward the side, in search of nectareous hair-trigger splendour. Through the profusion of glossy hues and enchanting bouquets does his eyes come to rest on the wonder of the peach. Velvet orbs with feather floss beam brightly from their bed. Cheeky sunfire marble with the bellybutton stem, smelling of August and beginnings. To the ear, there is laughter and black night cricket chimes. The colour has begun to bruise, bleeding ember and flame, leaving beautiful contusions on the skin, like a summer dusk sky. Far more tempting than an apple, the plumpish, pudgy peach is a thing of passion and paragon. The Sunday driver cannot stand to wait, his lust overtakes his reason, so he sinks in his teeth, breaking the skin, letting the sweet blood drizzle down his squared, savage chin. He sounds his kill with sloppy slurping. The flesh pulls revealing the wrinkled, ridged heart, heralding the pending death of the summer equinox, warning of winter. |