Figs are one of my favourite fruit. When I was in Greece, I was thunderstuck by the amount of figs fallen to the footpaths from overhanging trees. Fallen figs were underfoot. All that gorgeous bounty, gone to waste. I was careful not to tread on them, not just because of the falling-over-onto-my-face factor, but it seemed somehow wrong.
I wrote on Bluesky “The fig is a flower on the inside, just like all of us.” That provided the inspiration for the following poem. More details on the artist and painting are in the source link in the caption below the image.
Another one to add to my ekphastic poetry series. More on free verse here.
Figs
If I were a fig, and you were a fig,
we’d carry our flowers on the inside.
If I were bread, and you were bread,
we’d sustain ourselves for days.
If I were a knife, and you were a wooden table,
we’d cut against the grain.
If I were a Spanish painter, and you were my muse,
we’d drink red wine from the flask,
run ice from the barrel over our tongues,
and I would take my brush and slip it
around the lipped, undulating plate.
©elsp 2025
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