Apples

Gillian Clarke

They fill with heat, dewfall, a night of rain.

In a week they have reddened, the seed gone black

in each star-heart. Soft thud of fruit

in the deepening heat of the day.

Out of the delicate petals of secret skin

and that irreversible moment when the fruit set,

such a hard harvest, so cold and sharp on the tongue.

They look up from the grass, too many to save.

A lapful of windfalls with worms in their hearts,

under my thumb the pulse of original sin,

flesh going brown as the skin curls over my knife.

I drown them in water and wine, pushing them under,

then breathe apples simmering in sugar and spice,

fermenting under the tree in sacs of juice

so swollen they'd burst under a wasp's foot.