by William Furley

True, Adam's getting on a bit and Eve's
figure leaves something to be desired,
Eden itself beginning to look overgrown
like a suburban garden once well tended
now left to its own devices by an elderly
owner who can't really manage on his own:
the fig tree suffering in the English winters,
brambles scaling all the perimeter fences
and bindweed throttling the climbing rose

but every now and then they find an apple
either on the tree or lying on the ground,
a windfall, ripened to perfection,
with rosy cheeks like a Botticelli beauty,
its flesh sweet and juicy and they bite
into it in turn, sharing the enjoyment,
and remember how they had planted the tree,
watched its growth, celebrated the first flower,
then fruit, like the ultimate sensual pleasure.

©William Furley