Apples

Apples

All those weeks I picked apples
Reaching and twisting, filling again and again
The canvas and tin bag.
Rain fell, drenched to the bone,
I picked those radiant apples.
Illicit sweet bursts in the mouth
Hiding in the shelter of the trees.
And those we left behind,
Tiny blisters and halos that dappled the orchards.
Even when the mud caked our boots,
Even when our shoulders ached
Rows upon rows of trees lost us amongst them willingly,
Cushioned and caressed by leaf after leaf,
Myself and the apples, ripening into the dusk.

hannah foot
September, Dorset