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The Pickers ( 90 Views)
written by : Galia
“Somnambulists”, the old tree thought,
as outstretched arms and vacant eyes
of boys and girls in pale robes sought
the fleshy fruit that was their prize.
Shapes and shadows, fruitless, wrought
their treasure hunt to ruin-
alas the glow of apples caught
the brilliance of the moon.
By chance the moon, by clouds unveiled,
could hear their inward cries.
The glaze of pining unfulfilled
rolled from the pickers’ eyes.
Pale the limbs that clambered, climbed,
recklessly towards their loot-
soon boys and girls, heart driven, drove
their teeth into the sweetest fruit.
The common lull of night, now filled
with sounds of pleasure past control,
became the cup from which was spilled
the furtive yearnings of the soul.
With glowing eyes, and hearts content,
and pale robes soiled with juice-
with sticky arms now drowsy bent,
they wandered off to sluice.
“Juveniles”, the old tree thought,
that disregard the lives of those
‘who planteth yet they reapeth naught’
and pluck the fruit from where it grows.
Guarding at the garden gate
by night may keep them clear away,
but in their hearts the pickers wait
with hankering hope for the break of day.
Poem Rating - 1/10
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