She’s not grey though,
She’s orange,
And it shows in the taste.
Some people may call her more
Sour
Than her husband,
But the tang makes her worthwhile,
And the dry softer Earl sits by and wait.
But yet she’s not as sweet as Pomegranate…
Nor is she as tart as liquorice,
So she’s set aside.
And the bitterness becomes more present,
As she sits on the shelf and waits,
And more and more boxes pile up around her,
Brightly coloured,
And smelling of fruits,
Of foreign lands,
She wishes she were like them
But once more we’ll fall back,
To the familiar.
To the settled, well known taste.
To the lady.
Our lady.