Thursday, October 30, 2008


The orchard is littered with debris
and half-ripened apples. Mud rinses away
from red-green marbled skins.

The witch passed through here early
on her way to some meddling mission.
She took one apple and left the rest

to rot. No-one gleans windfalls
in the royal groves. The air smells
of cider and lightning, but the storm

is long over, this is the afterword.

--for Poefusion

Collection available! Knocking from Inside


Michelle Johnson said...

Wonderful afterword or afterward. No matter how you look at it this is a great poem. Well done. Have a nice day.

tumblewords said...

I love this - it's slightly menacing, fully engaging and somehow engenders a wisp of hope.