Ripe-old apple-trees Mark Andrew Heathcote I want to write a poem about ripe old apple trees And poets in their armchairs with arthritic knees, Carving out words into windblown dandelion seeds Circling trunks and boughs where a snake precedes To hiss and talk in serpent tongues of ancient-times I want to write a poem that reaches starry climbs, Lower-shadows in the grass than an adder That gives-off a whiff-taste of a sour-thereafter. Again, I want to write a poem about Adam and Eve, How Adam rolled up his sleeves, but couldn’t please Eve. How Eve jealously guarded a secret; How it tipped the world into self-revilement Such white-blossoms inked, flail into the sky, Like snake scales outgrown all-too-often-left awry. I want to write a poem about ripe-old apple-trees And poets in their armchairs with arthritic knees, But sadly I haven’t the time to-do-so child, I’m becoming all-too-old and now sleep beguiled.
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