The Apple-Picker

Alone on the lawn I pad in the quiet early morning,
Rustling the fallen ash-leaves, dabbled by dew,
To a narrow patch untamed by spade and unnoticed by strangers,
To pick the fallen apples from the grass.
So many fruits that would lie here, unremembered,
Sound between their brown, decaying friends.
I gather them in a pot, then look for another ...
So many apples
Round my damp feet, or hidden under the leaves.
Reach outstretched fingers behind a guarding bramble,
Not aware of scratching thorns but only the prize.

So many wet apples, their green flecked with blushes.
We hear of the starving poor in Africa.
Surely they would like my apples. But how
To convey them?
... The bell of St Matthew's
Strikes the hour from the distant world of Others.
My friends like apples - but not the ones I carry.
They'd only see the rotting spot of decay,
The frass-filled holes, the tiny slugs, not dream
Of the scent of stewing fruit and cooking pastry,
Or see Brown Betty with tea on the welcoming board.