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
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