11th November 2020
I am the very last apple:
Still hanging on, high in the tree.
Perhaps you wonder why I do what I do,
For it’s hardly a life of great glee.
I’m bounced around madly by gales,
I get soaked when it hammers with rain –
And this Autumn, here far west in Wales,
The wet comes again and again!
Many apples which were here around me
Took their chances: their choice was to jump.
Dropping down, some got bruised hitting branches;
All landed with dreadful loud thumps!
Now my mates who held on ’til the sun rose,
What they did was much wiser, okay?
They got picked up by one of the humans
Who do Windfall Patrol twice each day.
But the others, who let go in darkness –
Sad to say that they really were mugs:
Every night as I dangled I’d hark
To them slowly being eaten by slugs.
Now there’s nobody for me to talk to,
Not even a leaf left nearby!
Leaves are smart: when they quit, they don’t drop from the tree –
They wait for a breeze – and they fly!
I admit, I was offered an option:
I had a choice, other than jump.
Several times came a human a-climbing:
He was looking for fruit, ripe and plump.
A lot of my friends close around me,
They succumbed when that chap scaled our tree:
They let go when his hand it came feeling
To see how well fixed they might be.
But I hung on, my word how I hung on,
There was something that scared me to death:
I had to say ‘NO’ when he groped me –
It was apple I smelled on his breath!
I confess, with my mates I had never discussed
What might come after riding that basket:
Only I could surmise, with horrid surprise,
The basket was some kind of funeral casket!
I hate the storms that keep coming these days,
Getting airsick each time the bough sways;
I did think, “At least here’s a safe bet…”
But now has arrived a new threat.
Through this orchard are coming the starlings,
And it’s clear they are no gentle darlings.
Those sharp beaks are perfect for pecking:
It is me, I fear, they’ll soon be wrecking!
So, ‘Phew!’, here’s the man with a ladder:
To see him, I couldn’t be gladder.
When he reaches for me, I’ll let go of the tree:
Staying here would be very much madder.
Had I stayed, being eaten by birds –
What a pointless end, horribly humble…
But what a wonderful way to be magicked away:
With my pals, in a belting good crumble!
© Christopher Jessop 2020
