August Apples

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Three apples glow on the small tree
Rose, peach and cool yellow, little suns
Filling out with their soft sweet pulp,
The next generation cushioned inside.
Skins taut, with rivulets of stretch marks,
Their weight bending copper branches
That have sprouted, budded and grown
A halo of serrated leaves since Winter.
Each day they soak up the brightness
Reflect it back and wait for the drop,
But the wood pigeons have other ideas,
Taking turns to glide from the sycamore
To the apple tree, twist like trapeze artists,
Break the skin of one juicy globe and feast. 

 

Bob Beagrie is a widely published poet who lives in Middlesbrough. He is a part-time lecturer in Creative Writing at Teesside University and works as a freelance writer on community projects.

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