The Peaches

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The peaches were prized all year.

She breezed through the best room,

a nimbus of dust rising and falling 

from the ash-coloured carpet

as she flushed, apologised,

welcomed the lady to sit

amongst a mangle of throws

and horsehair.  

 

Deliciously, slowly,

she tipped them out– 

heaps of sweet peaches 

floating out of the tin, 

slop-dropping, wet little heaps.

Scooping the last of the pulps

with a coffee-spoon,

she waddled up to the armchair,

and offered the shining bowl.

 

Mrs Williams, perched like a finch

on the edge of her seat

waved her snub-nose,

no, thank you,

smoothed her prim skirt,

I can’t bear peaches

and left. Annie tried to smile

and curtsey, tidying her hair,

wiping her hands on her pinafore,

smearing peach juice away.

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