He had that majority under the loquat,
rain falling like a god in gold, the breakthrough
sun, and the spin on things, tar growing a fur.
Loitered there looking into the intenser
day, as kids emerged along the road again
in slops and polyester, kissing sugar.
How sober could he be in a white-wine rain?
Let’s say he showed a surplus. It matters not
of what. But that she called from France was extra.
They spoke in electricity. He reached up
and took a loquat from the god-sodden bough,
found it furred like a cat’s tongue, with a cat’s brass
scent of advent, a litter of stones within.
All of it then more; and more years ago now.

P. Q. R. Anderson

P. Q. R. Anderson is the author of Litany Bird and Foundling’s Island. He has been the winner of South Africa’s SANLAM Literary Award and Thomas Pringle Prize, and most recently was runner-up in the University of Canberra’s Vice-Chancellor’s International Poetry Prize. He teaches at the University of Cape Town.

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