Apple Tree today

Your fruit still hangs,
clinging on to life and nourishment
long after it should have
fallen to its death, its purpose.

Your staccato fingers dark
against the unseasonal blue
and gold. Where were the winds
to urge you on, encourage you?

You stand majestic, pathetic,
my strong silent sentinel amid
a world of change. Hold on
long to your charges.

Apple Tree
(This is after Anna Akhmatova's 'Willow')
And as the days began to lengthen
the pink blossomed against the pale blue sky
and I spent quiet hours under its dappled shadows.
Young and free.

And while the summer's heat took its toll
its heavy branches drooped almost to the ground
and made a darkened cocoon of security.
Contented calm.

But as the first fruits voiced their presence
and swelled until they over-proved themselves
and plumetted to the ground,
Rotted, rotting,

the wasps rejoiced
and I lost my innocence.


Early summer by the apple tree
(a response to Mary Oliver's 'Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond')

I wonder
how they seem to
start from nothing,
forming themselves
in secret places
until they emerge, fully-formed
miniatures, as they are today.

Immature
and insignificant
fruits which have
only rain, though often fierce,
and earth, though seldom rich,
and sun, though even that not essential
to help them through life.

Remember
so few weeks ago
how it stood, as if deprived
of life yet determined to live.
Its dark denuded branches
twisted into a wry smile
of one who knows

that surely
Spring follows Winter
and Summer Spring -
Death follows Life
and Life Death.
Return in Autumn and taste
its perfect fruits.

On the death of an apple tree
The sky is vast,
empty
from my window.

No leaves
or branches block
my view.

Inspiration
once flowed
whenever

I looked out.