Dreamily among the leaves, uneasily,

in my age, up a shining ladder

I am plucking plums – discarding those

rotten, prune-like encrusted with sugar,

or pecked at by passing tits and dunnocks.

I pass the whole, ripe ones down carefully

to my granddaughter, who holds her bowl

high as she can. You look on, pleased for us both

and concerned. Later you will place the blushed plums

in a wide shallow dish of the deepest red

adorned with foliage – and snap them

with your iphone to share with Facebook friends

and their gentle innuendo. Later still

you will pick some figs and immortalise them too.

We will get to eat the art. Another year

may pass before I mount that ladder

like some hoary angel.

Note: The poem was first published on Facebook in August 2017.