Apples

In the orchard where the trees stretch wide,
I taste the crisp, bright favourite bite,
Their skins a ruby cloak of sweet surprise,
With colour that turns dull to delight.

The wind whispers through green boughs as neat,
And I find the scent of savoury earth,
A subtle scent of rain‑kissed fruit, so sweet,
That melts the quiet of the mid‑day hearth.

A fork of apple, sliced for tea,
Biscuits warm, a splash of golden cider,
The centre of a village fête is free,
The day’s simple pleasure, never tired.

So let the apple rest in kitchen bowl,
Its humble grace, the heart of every soul.