Guava

The White‑Sculpted Guava

In a sleepy, sun‑lit corner of southern Peru,
a tree bears a fruit, white‑coloured as glass,
its skin a faintly bruised, almost‑tawny hue,
a mellow perfume that perfumes the pass.

Its flesh is a blush, soft as summer cream,
each fibre an inside‑out soup of sweet, green fern.
When sliced, the juice streams with a lazy dream,
and I taste the faint, lingering summer’s burn.

I make from it a cordial, a saucy pride:
a guava–lime syrup that wakes the languid mind.
With a splash of whisky, it becomes a glide,
a midnight glass that ties the day to kind.

Guiding the senses like a player at the centre,
the guava asserts its place, a humble titan.
In cafés on the coasts of the Indian Ocean,
the guava leaves its mark, smells like a saint’s bounty.

So I cherish the guava, my favourite in the orchard,
whispering of distant lands and quiet, verdant cacophony.
It reminds me that in a simple red‑purse heart,
lives a gentle and generous, fragrant eternity.