If Plato’s right that things have one Ideal
Material stuff reflects but cannot show
And all we see and hear and taste and feel
Are pale thin echoes of what we might know.
The taste of perfect figs cuts straight through time
Ascends to the Ideal, the Form, the True
Connects up to itself, to the sublime,
Eternal, joyful, timeless, ever new.
I learned to distrust happiness: it ends.
But now I savour moments, like the sun
That gently warms me, sharing figs with friends,
As time goes on and back, and All is One.
Sweet meaty figs split perfectly in three.
You may not know that. It was new to me.
7th September 2015
