20th August 2022
An apple seedling: a speary-leaved three inch tree
With six inches beneath looking strong.
Not noticed under that potato leaf canopy,
It sprawls on the dry dusty surface
Beside the spuds I’ve just forked up:
Landed fish incongruous, but everso luckily unharmed.
Now I recall:
Three years ago I planted here a row of pips;
And, naturally, nothing showing the next year, I assumed
All had over winter rotted or been eaten;
But this one seed proved a Sleeping Beauty.
Pushing haulm barrow away, putting gathering bucket aside,
I kneel, gently lift, carefully inspect:
The tap root is intact!
Quickly back from store room with a flowerpot,
Its new home until spring,
I crumble soil around and tamp it firm;
Then, to a sheltered nursery spot
For a thorough soak with recent rain from the shed-side butt.
How can I think this tree might save the day…?
Because all apple seedlings are mongrels, thus unknown quantities:
And, like Heinz dogs and alley cats,
Can prove hardy, healthy, and bountiful,
Bearing offspring with wondrous qualities.
Thus this tree, if it thrives and survives to adulthood,
Has a chance of coping against the worsening weather we have wrought –
Which could possibly prove overmuch for the refined Apple Nobility
Whose prosperity-glowed portraits smug at us
From weekend newspapers and glossy catalogues.
© Christopher Jessop 2022
