Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

They took a while to whisper me their name.
The tree had been neatened off by the road men,
or by whatever they call them these days,
shaved smooth in the hedge along with elder,

hawthorn, anything getting out of hand.
Two sturdy branches, only half ripped,
still arched back from the silver stump
over thorn and ivy;  from the far tip

of each twig hung a pale brown fruit.
Rough, shiny, like tiny Conference pears.
I bite into one.  A small, inquisitive nibble.
Sharp. Nutty. Unripe. Crab apples?

I bed them down in straw.   Slowly they darken.
Shrivel.  The spare room fills with their scent.
Shine dulls.  Days later, the firm surface gives
to the pressure of my thumb.  Some ooze.

I so want to give them a name. Could they be
what Beau-pere calls ‘cormes’?  ‘C’est vert?
C’est peut-etre ca.  On avait un sorbier dans le chemin
a cote de chez Merlet.  Avant qu’ils construisent la route.

‘Ou bien des aliges.  Il y en avait un ici autrefois’.  -
‘Un quoi?’ - Un alouchier’.  Sheepishly,
he corrects the dialect word,  ‘Alisier, je veux dire.
Au bout de la vigne.  Il est tombe avec la tempete de ’52’.

I hold the soft papery pouches by the brittle crown
and ease off the dark fruit with my teeth.
The skin dissolves on the tongue, like rice paper,
revealing hints of apple baked with cinnamon.

What are you?  ‘Mais ce sont des nefles!’ says Beau-pere,
when I bring them round to him.  Hm.  Ca me rappelle,
ca me rappelle .... Hm’.   Medlars.  Medlars,
of course. And I whisper back their name.

                                               Vaux-sur-Mer