Lemons like lanterns hung in the trees,
Tired green leaves, darkening sky. These are
Not the lemons on the fruit stall,
They are swollen-bellied and knobbly,
With skin like magnified human skin and its pores,
Pale green, blotched cream, ochre, brown.
Not the lemons on the fruit stall in the supermarket,
Not ice-maiden yellow, smooth and clean.
These are tough outlaws, renegades,
Wild beasts that won't be corralled.
They've held out against the Sirocco
Belting through, bending their stems,
Blasting with sand from the Sahara desert.

On a summer evening with the coolness descending
Even they glow like lanterns hung in the trees.