Awarded to

Damen O'Brien

Orange

Before the fruit was plundered

from the Emperor's walled gardens,

before England's royalty was plied with fat quarters

there was no word to unspring the fingers of the rainbow's palm

there was no frame for smoke sunsets,

no tone for the bearded coal's flume.

Maybe there was no such colour

pricking fallen leaves,shagging manes?

Perhaps before the Orange

grey lions with blunt claws

walked easily with gazelles.

Perhaps in the last orphaned stands

of great forests, there is a fruit

which can train new colours to our eyes

and put new fangs in our grey thoughts.