Kissed by Cranberries

Oh … the days
we come off the trees,
filled with whispers of purpose
inwards directed,
tangy and tart solipsisms …
moving to colour the world,
even if we stain it pomegranate
with our dithering.

Forget the mulled wine,
for that was the aged,
spicily remembered.
We wished to be sugared
for thanksgiving,
sweetened up a notch and more,
so they could eat us remorseless,
imagining future hopes in bread and muffin,
everything … so yet to happen …

But wrinkled now
into sweetness itself,
ready for bitter,
to be lost in butter and batter,
all permutations of
floury daydreams;
memoirs of spice,
planning love to chocolate
lend myself to kisses.
Taste me and you will know.







I did this on December prompts by a fellow instagrammer who bakes and writes poetry. I didn’t realise it could be such a fun exercise to work with a limited number of words.

Mulled wine, cranberries, chocolate, spice were some of the prompts. The poem speaks of fresh cranberries that yield the sweet dried ones used in cake, a metaphor for aging perhaps 😉

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