Ruth Fainlight
Green Tomatoes
Down the high street, past the post box,
Doris, whose husband suddenly died
at the weekend, called me over. She was
mowing the lawn to make it all tidy
before the funeral. Arms and legs
bare in the heat, skin sagging
like washed-out, faded longjohns,
she led me into the steamy warmth of
a greenhouse crowded with green tomatoes
as hard and vivid as malachite.
‘Would you like some?’ she asked.
‘They won’t stop ripening.’
Page(s) 78
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