The Lemon Poem by Gert Strydom

I pick a ripe yellow lemon from the tree,
the children, even the dog imitates me
and when I warn them to eat it up
the two boys draw up their lips
from its sour taste, the brown Labrador complies,
eating right through the skin,
but will never again eat such a thing

and my picking of it is no sacrament,
to offer to the gods
not even a thieving thing
as that tree with green leaves and thorns
belongs to me
and I am not doing it
to apply as medicine with honey in a drink
but lemon juice in my mother’s pudding treat
is an essential thing
in the mix of biscuits, condense milk and custard.