apple sheds

they are the faintest of years
a stretch of days long whispered away
reeled and stowed with so much dust but

memories can be plucked by the briefest scent
of redolent sweet astringent vines
their fruit as red and plump as love and calling back

simple patulous summers of trikes and nettled knees
hiding from the lemony bright sun
in an orchard’s tattered shade

and into the quiet cluttered womb
of oil pungent apple sheds
boxes stacked in silent towers

pregnant with patient Egremont
waiting their turn for the table
or to disappear in my greedy grasp

and what else has been spirited away
that does not live on colour bleached film
or the furthest reaches of me

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