Heather Pound

I used to think that papaya tasted like cheap perfume

Until while living in the islands, one sprang up right outside my front door

The freshness must intensify the goodness, I reckon

Flesh still warm from the sun, juice dripping

Scraping away so many black balls of seeds before scooping.

Dropping those seeds straight into the rubbish because that same tree taught me

That for a plant that springs up fast, tall, appealing, and willowy in the wind

The roots, what is beneath the surface, are ruthless

Because one day very little water came from the tap. And when we found the culprit

It was that jolly pawpaw tree

Tempting us with its fruit, but roots spreading through pipes.

The plumber that knew about these things said that you just can’t let one spring up

Right up against the house

The damage that comes is swift and unexpected. And surprisingly fierce

So to taste that sweetness, you need to take a few steps away from your walls

Stretching your legs even a little bit

Protecting your boundary, what is important, from the tyranny of something

That looks pleasant in the moment, but can wreck your supply or something vital