Bauble brothers hang red,one rotund, one spouted,
both made a magenta
melancholy by fog.
Its white whispers nightly,
slipping their bloody seeds
down paper-funnel tales
of supple branches stripped,
and the skin-cracking eyes
coming too soon to cull.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #103: pomegranate at Read Write Poem. This week's prompt was the photo above right (Pomegranate by Nasos3), which has a spooky air about it that I tried to capture in the verse.
