A quadrille for the dverse prompt—spoil. In old French, and still sometimes in the the Midi, fruits don’t have stones, they have bones.
Around the plum tree,
humming through clenched teeth
where fallen fruit lay.
sugar wept from bruised wounds,
and the smell of spoilt fruit festooned the hot air
with scents of Christmas.
Bare now the hard earth
except for plum bones.