The Old Pear Tree
A waning moon allows lumbering clouds to form silhouettes. Restricted light from the weak glows of distant neon street lamps, beacons in a sea of darkness.
A shiver of trepidation as the wall appears. High, capped by a layer of mortar embedded with haphazardly placed shards of broken glass. Metal silicates heated into a fevered transparency, broken remnants of tinted containers whose purpose remains.
Wisps of autumn’s bounty invade, crisp and sharp as the cold night air. Confined within, the old black pear tree stands. Its fruit shrouded beneath a patchwork quilt of obscurity, a veil dampening the crusade of desire.
No lionhearts we, no storming the walls of Jerusalem. Too high, too sharp, our fires consumed by the oxygen of fear. The rosaceous tree’s fleshy fruit mirroring the colour of our yellow spines.
Our human scaffold trembles, then falls, crumpled by the weight of disappointment. The ripping sound of ensnared wool, the groans of envisaged wrath that awaits.
Defeated, our sprawling bodies pay homage to a sandstone sentinel. Pretensions, stripped and torn, regret bathed in the silvery gleam of a now exposed moon. No broken bones, merely dented pride and splintered dreams that glow in the spotlight of frustration.
No holy grail, only the deep cuts of dismay etched within.