You always ate oranges
I am peeling an orange at the end of something
At the end of a line from each time you took up the fruit
Dug your thumb in, hooked out a chunk of skin
Pulled pith from flesh from round
heralding its colours so loud no one
could hear themselves think
I am tearing the peel from an orange gently and somewhere
Far away a tree falls in a forest and we
don’t hear it but the ground does and the birds do
And they mourn the passing of things out of existence
In limitless waves of quiet
Gabrielle Meadows lives in Norfolk and works in arts education. She runs workshops in
storytelling and improvisation for young children.
gjmeadows.wordpress.com