the cast iron farm bell calls in the fruit pickers
a wholesome lunch with colourful seasonal fruits
spreading on a quiet embroidered pastoral tablecloth
they are just a bunch of jovial young lads
scoffing down a meal
bantering as dessert
but you
you are reserved
quietly crunching on a Granny Smith
fixated on an open book
at the edge of the sun
they don't get you
you come freshly in the morning
sharp witted in a checkered shirt
with a tinge of bitterness
aloof to the rest
so they call you 'Pomelo'
somewhat endearing
and you like it
for it is forbidden
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Flicker of Thoughts 