The fruiting
The fruiting is done
Rusting apples bob in glazed grass
Stained by damson rain
Trees have given up, emptied by
Autumn’s sudden exhaustion
The orchard stands still.
I move under the boughs
Picking up unwanted fruit
I try pears shaped like apples
And apples shared by other things
They taste half-remembered
Impure, acid, edgy, real
Food from a different age
Out of fashion, out of shape
The wrong red, unaltered
Without gloss or name
Lacking value. Void
Not for shrink wrapping
But I like these oddities
Pressed by storm and snow
Shoulders hunched, riding the wind
So doggedly fecund
Pumping the pulse of an older time