Lemons

Most of all I remember
the lemon trees

late Spring in Andalucia -
a remote villa in the Spanish hills
my daughter and son-in-law
brown as berries by the swimming pool
in the lush Eden-garden fed daily
from a hillside spring

me hovering between swing-seat
and sofa indoors reading
Driving Over Lemons -
the best book ever -

imagining a life living here
in the hills, in the sun
with the natives
surrounded by lemon trees

Once I painted lemons on gesso
in egg tempera - a rare still life
which hung in my mother's
living room until she died

I mourned that painting,
the living fruit of my past

no paints, but I have my camera
and on our last day I clamber into
the trees to capture these luscious
Spanish beauties in close-up

and the result is nearly as good
as the book cover image

Or so I think two years on
when I happen upon them both
one dismal Sunday in what passes
for Spring back in washed-out England

and I'm siezed by a nostalgic
longing for the real things as
I squeeze watery juice from my
waxed supermarket imitations

telling myself these lemons suck