Stilled ripeness behind a wall
in the Black Sea town of Sozopol ...
Fig jam greens refracted sea-light,
jars stacked up on foldaway tables,
but it’s the lure of hidden fruit
that’s proving food for thought
on these staggered, staggering cobbles.
And so because land ends here
in a tumble of rock, you might
have to bear with me, back
over a stony unadopted route
or out along coastal defences.
Cloudbursts of gulls shadow
wakes of returning fishing boats,
though we’re already in the shade
of balcony overhangs and a care
not to abide the inferences
clamouring in every word.
And so because here we are
browsing at a souvenir shop,
we’re hoping to find a thread
to hang shells and semblances on,
while waves not so far below
furl and roll along the shore
and there’s hidden fruit behind a wall
in the Black Sea town of Sozopol.
