Poetry by Clare Best

From Woodlands Kitchen, Midwinter

July they swelled, loading the trees,
September I dreamt of harvest - ladders, baskets,
how we'd bring the apples in
to bake or stew. Now it's next year

and they rot, their gold red mildew skins
resolving into brown. I grieve
for hard fruit, feel the waste, the lack.
Tonight, more than grass and apples

let there be planets, angels, a flaming sky
and birds in the orchard suddenly
dozens of birds - magpie, moorhen,
greenfinch, blackbird, thrush

feasting on sweet flesh, glutting on fruit
where it fell. And absolutes:
feathers, ice, a blooded sun,
the weight of fallen apples on winter ground.