beauty berries gleam out bright

sunlit they call to me

their colour outré, weird — unnatural

and yet so clearly they do live, and thrive, in nature

grow boldly there, but . . . pulsing neon purple!

like some French lipstick, high gloss on plumply painted lips

like movie version of recherché sports car long ago

like some fake flavoured candy —'grape' lifesaver, perhaps?

(salvaging some kind of altered life?

popped rough in hungry mouth and sucked off smooth?)

and yet, again, it's not like that

bush grows up, branches sharply, crudely out

hard brown wood stems, dark bark thrust down

roots deep in tiny snip of nature

naturally naked, berries there for all to see

for birds to bite

for snow to cloak

just not for me

not for me

not for me to touch

what can I do

what should I do

what's to be done

must change

must put on purple underwear

must dye my hair dark plum