Medlars after Bletting Mmmmmmmmm

I'll just have to wait a while for the delicate flavour after frost.

Medlars and Sorb Apples by D H Lawrence (part of his poem)

I LOVE you, rotten,
Delicious rottenness.

I love to suck you out from your skins
So brown and soft and coming suave,
So morbid, as the Italians say.
What a rare, powerful, reminiscent flavour
Comes out of your falling through the stages of decay:
Stream within stream.

Something of the same flavour as Syracusan muscat wine
Or vulgar Marsala.

Though even the word Marsala will smack of preciosity
Soon in the pussy-foot West.

What is it?
What is it, in the grape turning raisin,
In the medlar, in the sorb-apple.
Wineskins of brown morbidity,
Autumnal excrementa;
What is it that reminds us of white gods?


(note) I think i would have done better taking this earlier in the day at f16 and 1/25th but was running out of light