A mouthful of language to swallow:
stretches of beach, sweet clinches,
breaches in walls, bleached branches;
britches hauled over haunches;
hunched leeches, wrenched teachers.
What English can do:
the warmth that chuckles beneath
fuzzed surfaces, smooth velvet
richness, plashy juices.
I beseech you, peach,
clench me into the sweetness
of your reaches.
By Peter Davison
Peter Davison, American, 1928-2004. Speaking of his own career, Davison once told Contemporary Authors: “I must be one of the few poets of my generation who has never either taken or given a creative writing class, but I cannot suggest what to make of that fact. I have seldom found my editorial career in conflict with my writing except at UNFATHOMABLE depths. Poetry for me is not work but pleasure, not a career but a second life – a play within a play. “
I picked this poem because I picked peaches recently. There is a peach tree in the community polytunnel in Whiting Bay. This small tree is so abundant that two of the branches have split due to the weight of these sweet, velvet beauties and my senses were overwhelmed. Life is a peach 🧡