Apples

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.