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Oranges<\/strong><\/p>\n Every summer, oranges grew like heartbeats: <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Joseph Davison-Duddles<\/strong> is seventeen and lives in the north of England. This year he was a winner in the Foyle Young Poets competition, commended in the Hippocrates Prize for Young Poets, and came second-place in a Lancaster Writing Award. His hobbies include untidiness and political disappointment. His poems can be found in Ambit, Cadaverine,<\/em> and Prole<\/em> magazines.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Oranges Every summer, oranges grew like heartbeats: my father went to the grave of his sister and my mother picked them from the trees. Mornings and nights were peeled from their days and every day seemed a Sunday, a few fruit bathed in cold water to slow their ripening. Occasionally, with the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8065","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8065","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8065"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8065\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8068,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8065\/revisions\/8068"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8065"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8065"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8065"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nmy father went to the grave of his sister
\nand my mother picked them from the trees.
\nMornings and nights were peeled from their days
\nand every day seemed a Sunday, a few fruit bathed
\nin cold water to slow their ripening.
\nOccasionally, with the oranges unwatched,
\nwe would steal them early from the water \u2013
\nour hands dripping across the kitchen floor.
\nThe juice went sticky and stained our hands
\ntill we soaked in the basin water at evening,
\nwhen the sun is a fruit on its lowest branch.
\nOn those evenings, my father would sit
\nin the orchard after every fruit had fallen
\nand watch them change to molten shades.<\/p>\n