They Now Grow Greengages

There has been so much spilt blood they now grow greengages, fruits without colour plums without the pigments of kinship that hides their ultimate hunger and desire. As the old-guards-of-the-forest-glade die and their young have yet still to grasp life like stinging nettles, we must watch their pale faces searching for a sanctuary made good. Tears turn to amber; capture a vanishing country. Their childhoods tore apart like a flightless paper kite grappling with a decaying body of destruction they fumble for limbs, the ghosts they've lost. It's these greengages - fruits without colour- who've tasted hollowed days that feel endless, remorseless that they harvested? But one day- will burn a healthy russet gold a fruitful plum again?