Frost! The grass crisp underfoot, the sound of teeth.
Apple Memories lie despoiled by time and slugs,
dry husks of skin, a tragedy of sweetness lost to man.
Leaves gone the old pruned trees bare, hold gnarled fists
aloft chastise grey skies for lack of sun.
Bark silver rimed holds fast accounts of time and memories
of bees, kissed to their knees by apple blossom lust.
Rust grows tall about the edge, a beech hedge planted
deep to keep scab away from glowing skin that pinks in June
and dapples to a rosy glow, ripe and sweet by late September.
A Robin hops from limb to limb as I walk close behind him.
He tells me stories of the colder days and the early morning haze
that hang like fluff in wafts and tufts above the long grass
of the winter orchard.
© Dave Kavanagh 2016