Scrumping
Late summer
and the barefoot boys are scrumping.
They have scrunched-up themselves
into the green sap of leaf and branch,
as trees to be climbed, branches to fall from.
In the village shop
an ample lady sells apple pies,
she has apple cheeks,
and her twin apples are full and warm to the eye.
Orchards are prisons to be broken into,
they are owned by the owner,
the owner haunts the blind corners of our minds,
sometimes we feel him leaping upon our backs.
We scramble upwards,
never speak of it, ever.
Then we are among the hanging apples.
They glow, heavier than the sun,
yet we tug them down, shaking sky and stem,
taking them.
Rush away, no basket or sacks -
none yet have discovered the art of thinking.
Racing into the dry-husked cornfield,
hearts thumping ribs,
pockets tight and bulging,
hoping that they may be handpicked
by the choice hands of dream-girls.
Charging onward into the first flush,
apple-full, apple hauling,
we rush
headlong,
into the too readily harvested,
all too fleeting.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Scrumping' = Stealing apples from an orchard.
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