FebulousFebruary 2026: The Old Photograph

The Fruit’s Revenge

Murdering plum

here I hang, from my stem ripening in the sun

The tree branches swing I cling and brighten, awaiting ripening to deepening reds, my coat of protective skin, to flare…

I hide there within the fanfare of claws, wings and teeth, I’m the insects’ feast. They suck my sap and leave me feeling rather crap. 

But most common are the human hands that pluck me from the lands for jams and not the caterpillars.     The hands are the real killers, scrumping thrillers, the common land millers and tillers, all the jam jar fillers, killers. 

A glass jam jar is my hearse, my sweet nectar is your curse.

Your hands feel and peel away my skin painfully thin and throw me in the bin. Discarded, my coat I no longer wear from your, rip, your tear my flesh uncloaked, sliced and pummelled to death.  Eat my pip I dare.

The knife scored out my core, my stone heart rejected like old bones, if caught in your throat my pip, you choke. 

You scoop the zest, the best of the flesh, and place me to rest in a jar, whispering, you my favourite jam to spread on bread.  My life’s dread.

You spy the stone you left alone, my core my heart you tore, you put it in your mouth rolling it about you can’t resist you grab the jar, pop the lid, the knife you slide and spread me on your bread……..

A big mistake, the stone seals your fate. You bite and swallow my heart, it sticks and chokes for sure, you breathe no more.

Laying on the kitchen floor, you’re off to the grave yard, stone buried, my heart secure. I’ll be covered in earth once more. 

Andrea Francis, London