Autumn

Daughter of Blossom, the apple

A saucey little item, sits neatly in your Palm,

Exquisite in its pert roundness,

Asking to be admired and handled...

Look for instance, at the much forgotten Staulk

The Secret timing of its fall from grace,

That has within it’s grasp,

The gravity of the situation.

Or else the ‘Apple of your Eye’ cradled in the sun,

And Plucked in perfection from the tree of life,

The rosie skin that takes a shine,

Protects the inner flesh, firm, crisp and even...

Till young mouths are brought into play,

And teeth sunk into sweet sharpness,

The hint of summer lost in autumn,

Each subtle fragrance stored within the mind,

A host of memories, the DNA of myth, the pips,

Eve’s gift, a timely signal, carried down the ages,

Small sanctuary, the source of secret divination,

Sliced through, yields an inner core,

That once discarded, rises up again,

The shadey orchard meeting place for slender youth.

Beneath The Golden Bough,

Two song birds within a garden walled

copyright James Crowden