Dried Fruit

War threatens market trader Zeno
Cosini’s freedom to sit up thunder-struck
in bed and announce ‘Buy that dried fruit
at once!’ It was a border town

but the border town had wandered, like true
magnetic north or the date of Easter.
Its latest name sweated out
its overheating Italian vowels

with a brisk after-lunch shower.
Dried fruit is civilisation.
Dried fruit, the pouting finch

corrects him, eyeing his leavings –
a fig-rind – dried fruit is war.

{Ends]

I hereby adjourn to the frozen north (Aberdeen) for a few days. More anon, then.