Tinted green, yellow, brown and blushing pink,
ripened fruit back-shelved, with juices to drink.
All shapes, sizes, the plucked bush mango waits:
lustres amongst sugary figs and honeyed dates.
Sweating. Sun matured with soft wrinkled skin,
you reach, handle and it beckons you in.
Split open rind, it surrenders and parts,
spilling the moist intoxicating heart.
Now sticky oils, they cling to your fingers,
then cunning sweet scent that grips and lingers.
Tongue tangled. Dancing a tango of taste,
thrusting pirouettes of slowness and haste.
Man should go and select the fruit with care:
to take pleasure when desires are laid bare.