Frieda had gone to the farmers market,
Early afternoon to buy a big pound
Of beans; but then she also decided
To pick up fruits,—strawberries, plums, peaches,
And of course grapes from Dave’s luscious vineyard,
The gifts of the green day. Her pretty house
Spoke of plenty; also of gadgetry,
As if even countering emotions
Was an aspect of its certain working.
The speedy season brought another warmth,
And the breeze carrying the golden sun
Vied with the vendors, enthusiastic
In living richness. The state-of-the-art
Mingled the buzz of the place with colours
That, it seemed, life had gathered all its zest
In some spelled activity of the week.
The matrix of human time could become
The artificer of passionate will
Promoting modernity’s complex sense,—
With robust metaphor of gain. Frieda
Noticed amidst the usual faces
Youthful Michael too, with his largish crock
Filled with honey. It didn’t come from wild bees
Nor from the cute Italian genus
Proficient in nectar collecting,
But from a breed developed in the lab,
A cross between the bee and the glow-worm,
Which the journal calls glow-bee, apian
Wonder indeed, busy through day, through night!
So would flourish new markets across sea,
And land, in different climes. But Frieda
Felt in her awed heart a three-quarter ton
Weight of the genetic pumpkin, favoured
By the food chain enterprises. Approve
She would not export of this avarice,—
Nor
RY Deshpande
11 June 2004