Golden Fruit

A caitiff born in heaven tried amain To buy the chance to be Reborn, instead of overslaughed and slain For what he pined to see. The stinging nettle growing on the tor Necked out to watch this foe And, in its envy, craved for more Sharp hairs than it could grow. The golden fruit was more than man could scorn, And thus he climbed the tree Whence hands of plunder stole the bounty borne By every breathing bee. Alas, these outcast creatures seemed to think That there was still some chance For grace to call them from the lurid brink Of shame, where Furies dance. Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com