Old Lady

Old Lady

Under shady branches

Gnarled and knuckled

Scabbed and twisting

Lie windfalls softly cradled

Cushioned in the dewy grass

Bruised and slowly browning

In the hazy sunshine

Sweet juices fermenting

Into heady cider

Intoxicating the lazy wasps

And the blackbirds

Which feed upon the crop

Sipping the late abundant nectar

She leans slightly to one side

Like a hobbled old lady

Her trunk bent beneath the weight

Of twigs and leaves and fruits

Her aged limbs

Weathered, wind-buffeted

Her bark rough and leathery

Skin rotted and cankered

Her shape crooked and disfigured

Diseased, hard and broken

By the passing years

Yet still the sap must rise within her

Re-awakened every Spring

To produce abundant blossom

Pulling in the pollinators

To create a canopy-full

Fertile with heavy fruits

Of such acid sharpness

Silhouetted in her twilight years

She stands defiantly alone

Never part of any orchard

But fiercely rooted

Through every season

Crabbed in her corner of the garden

But still verdant, fruitful, useful

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014