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
.
CLP 16/10/2019
