Old Lady

Old Lady

Under shady branches

Gnarled and knuckled

Scabbed and twisting

Lie windfalls softly cradled

Grass-cushioned in the dew

Bruised and slowly browning

In the morning-hazy sunshine

Sweet juices fermenting

Into heady cider

Intoxicating the lazy wasps

And the bickering blackbirds

Which feed upon the crop

Sipping at this late abundant nectar

Like a hobbled old lady

She leans slightly to one side

Her trunk bent beneath the weight

Of aged limbs

Of twigs and leaves and fruits

Weathered, wind-buffeted

Her bark rough and leathery

Skin rotted and cankered

Her shape crooked and disfigured

Diseased, hard and broken

By the passing seasons

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 hard and heavy fruits

Of such acid sharpness

Silhouetted in her twilight years

Still fiercely rooted

She stands defiantly alone

Never part of any orchard

Crabbed in her corner of the garden

But still verdant, fruitful, useful

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2015