Still Life - Aug 5 2020

Still Life

Aug 5 2020

In the still life

the fruit catches the light just so,

where contrast and shadow

create a fine illusion of depth.

Turgid purple grapes

overflow the big porcelain bowl,

thick-walled

and creamy white.

There are pear-shaped pears,

and heavy peaches

covered in peach-coloured fuzz.

Apples gleam green and red,

while blue-black plums

are as inscrutable

as is always true of plums;

juicy sweet

or tartly dry?

But not as still

as the painter's conceit would have it.

Because only the surface is motionless.

Inside

each piece is rotting, fermenting

ripening relentlessly,

seething with life, and death

and inexorable transformation.

Because in life, there is only motion.

And you would have known this

had you waited a moment

until a hand reached down

and plucked a perfect plum.

Had watched straight white teeth

indent its smooth tight skin,

giving just a little

until breaking in.

Sink into soft purple pulp

until sweet succulent juice

drips down a child's sticky chin

to the unforgiving pit,

which she would toy with her tongue

before rudely spitting-out.

One day, some yeast will land,

and a boozy bird

will sing a garbled song

and dance on wobbly legs

and stagger off somewhere.

One day, the bowl will slip

and shatter into shards

on the hard porcelain tile.

One day, an apple seed

will find its way to soil

and a fine tree will grow.

Will year after year

give gifts of fruit

and drop its leaves in fall.

When the anonymous painter

will have long since departed.

The still life

still adorn its wall.