The apple tree buds, the start of spring,
The first sign of hope,
The flowers arrive and with them
Birdsong, absent for some months now.
Fresh new smells in the garden and the cleaned up patio
Point to lunch outside for the first time.
The flowers turn to green berries,
Unnoticed at first but getting a little bigger each day,
As the summer progresses.
We still sit outside for food, when the weather allows.
Though more often we complain about it,
But the apple tree likes the rain.
Holidays come and we abandon the tree to
Work its magic, and the apples grow fat.
Expectantly we await the first windfalls
That suggest harvest time has arrived.
Back to school and a bumper crop.
Up the ladder to pick the finest,
Bags filled full and heavy.
In the kitchen, flour, sugar and blackberries
Make a heavenly combination.
Outside the apple tree is now forgotten,
Its job done, leaves gone,
Just the odd fruit left, out of reach,
Bending slender bough and bobbing wildly
As the winter winds wreak havoc on the garden.
The apples, stored in the shed
Won’t last the winter…
For Ann Cookson