He lived at the end of the street
And spoke to me in riddles,
Words,
Phrases I didn’t understand
What does he do there? At the end of the street?
The chavs and the ned’s point and laugh
For an old man in a waistcoat
Sitting on that grey step
It was odd.
“The oranges will fare you well?”
He asked me,
(The sun glinted off his pocket watch)
As if the answer lay
Curled in the palms I had hidden
“Sir, what do you intend
By asking me that question?”
He thought for a moment, and a moment more
Until I blinked.
A tree?
For that was what stood there now,
One orange hung on its branches.
Tempting.
It’s colour allured me,
Dazzling as a comet,
Rich as parliament
Plucking it never felt so right,
And it weighed in those palms like a book
Of knowledge and scriptures
“The oranges will serve me well.”
