Oranges
by and published in Edition Nine of Pomegranate
Brought to us were Christingle Oranges.
Valencia, Sanguinello and moon-yellow Mandarin.
Christingle, children. Gather, gather. Tuck in.
God, like Philip Larkin,
when knocking together his fifth universe,
declared,
“If I were called in
to build a religion-”
“Again…” interposed the Son.
“-I should employ oranges.
My liturgy would be a peeling,
flensing of the flesh
in flares around the ankles.
And I should erect in the south
islands like orange squeezers
where molten citrus pulp
could circulate zestily.”
“Hold in,” said the Holy Ghost.
“Bit pricey – think business.”
Jehovah let avarice win.
So in Universe Five,
we celebrate oranges once a year,
at Christingle, Christongle, Christangle.
Andrew Wynn Owen
Andrew Wynn Owen a 16 year old student, was born towards the end of the second millennium and will die early in the third. There are days when he refuses to think in syllogisms and others when he will reject anything but. He has been a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2009 and a winner in 2008 and he has lived in Kent for 16 earth years, where his best friends are the tortoises gambolling and gambling in the meadows