It’s not a gold one in a glass box
or a painting hung in a gallery.
It’s not the one I sliced in half
with a blunt knife and shared
with a surfer on Fistral beach.
It’s not the one I mashed for my daughter
and watched as her pupils bloomed
when the sweet pulp touched
her tongue for the first time.
This pear, this one right here – once bathed
in sunlight and glazed with light rain - is the last
in the fruit bowl.
A tear drop. A stopped bell.
Ripe and freckled brown.
A soft steady weight in my palm. Old
now and almost past its best but I like how
when I squeeze the flesh, my thumbprint remains.
Sam Payne is a writer living in Devon, UK. Her poems have appeared in Ink, Sweat and Tears, Literary Mama and The Open Mouse. She is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing with Teesside University through their distance learning programme.