quince

not apple

not pear

sharp yet distant scent

an incantation

of a fruiting from another time

a childhood in glass jars

jams and jellies savoured slowly

through the grey tail of Winter

til the last deep amber tang was gone

and with the first tiny tips of hope

sprouting on the tree

jars returned full of thanks

to an ancient neighbour over the wall

sometimes now he sits in his flat

hugged by the rhythms of falling rain

inhaling lingering traces

of pre-city life

waxed paper circles, inky handwriting

earthy heartfeels,  green mouthfeels

he hasn’t seen a quince tree for years

oh to preserve it all like that

aromatic memories

newspaper wrapped in old apple boxes