October (III)

These last are not low hanging

But harvest them we must

Ripened on the upper boughs

The topmost, sun-blushed fruit

Balanced between earth and sky

We climb and stretch

To where they sit

Well nigh, just out of reach

If there’s a slip, they ricochet from branch to trunk to orchard floor

Gashed and bruised in descent

These will be the first we eat

The rest, the best, the sweetest

We carry carefully to the winter store

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CLP 16/10/2019

Published by

Christopher Perry

Liberté, Equalité, Humanité

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