Venie Environmental Poetry Prize

Greengage plums in preston by Kiara Lindsay

it’s taken us four months to work out
what type of fruit our tree will bear

they will be greengage plums

they’re not ripe yet so I bought one at the supermarket
to see what they will taste like

very tart and biting just under the skin
like a couple after a row

I imagine myself making jam or roasting them with
spice and think about abundance

I research fruit nets until I found out fruit bats die
because their mothers can’t get back inside

I roast the plums and fill up empty jars
they don’t fit in the fridge so I start to give them away

a group of fruit bats migrate further north where there are more trees
and less nets

I’m tasting the preserved plums. they’re not quite what I had expected
and in fact, terrible

I’m surrounded by buckets and baskets of pale green fruit
the kitchen ferments on a hot afternoon

the bats can’t find a tree without nets or pesticides
so they start to malnourish

I take all the plums and place them in the landfill bin. I keep only one jar of the first jam I made.
it was the sweetest and best-tasting of the jams.

it takes me six months to eat it because I don’t eat much
jam these are the greengage plums in preston

Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

More Winning Poems

The GP Asks About Pins and Needles by Kailum Graves

My father says there is water moving inside his left leg. The GP asks whether he means pins and needles. No, he says. Water. She checks his circulation, presses two fingers against his ankle, asks if the sensation changes at night. That’s when it starts, he says. After the television goes quiet. I am there

Read More »

Praise by Martin Langford

It goes down. It all falls away. Cell membranes, dust flecks, dead leaves. Praise to the itineraries of drift. To regolith, crumbling the contact – the brittle, the lost, the unmoored. To the ash of burnt ericafolia – the silver and black of the heath in the chafe of the wind. Praise to the dried-up

Read More »

Bogong by Russell Buzby

They navigate by stars and the earth’s own iron, a thousand kilometres of spring dark on wings you could read newsprint through, bound for the granite country, the cool caves where they tile the walls in their sleeping thousands, each with its head beneath a neighbour’s wing, an aestivating city, waiting out the plains’ white

Read More »
Scroll to Top