Autumn Is Coming

Old Lady

Under shady branches

Knuckled and gnarled

Scabbed and twisting

Lie windfalls cradled softly

Amongst the dewy grass

Bruised, browning slowly

In the hazy sunshine

Sweet juices fermenting

Into heady cider

Intoxicating the sleepy wasps

And the blackbirds

Which feed upon the crop

Sipping the abundant nectar 

You lean slightly to one side

Like an old lady

Your trunk bent beneath the weight

Of twigs and leaves and fruits

Your aged limbs

Weathered, wind-buffeted

Your bark rough and leathery

Skin rotted and cankered

Your shape crooked and disfigured

Diseased, hard and broken

By the passing years 

Yet the sap must still rise within you

Each and every Spring

To produce abundant blossom

Pulling in the pollinators

To create a canopy-full

Fertile with fecund fruits

Of such acid sharpness 

In the twilight of your years

Your age is unimportant

You stand defiantly alone

Never part of any orchard

But fiercely rooted

Through every season

Crabbed in your corner of the garden

But still verdant, fruitful, useful

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012