It was windy when I woke
and the bittercold floorboards shocked
my bare feet.
Even the teaspoon
bit my fingers as I stirred, gulped,
peered out the rattle-paned window.
Somewhere it was summer
but not in my city.

It was a morning for passionfruit.

I sawed and split the skin:
there spilt tumbled seeds, bright flesh, squirtings of juice
sweet, throat-achingly sharp,
liquid birds'-breast yellow and pink
as a frangipani's heart.
Juice pooled on the china plate
and dribbled off the rim
to glimmer on the murky retro green
of old linoleum.

The shrivelled half-husks
held two perfect mouthfulls
of perfumed summer.