They were cookers
rather than eaters.
Every autumn dad claimed
the crop; each emerald orb
was wrapped in yesterdays’ news
then placed in scented hibernation
under the marital bed.
One year as winter clawed deep
they perfumed the room
masking the tartness of distance
that crept through the house.
By next harvest he’d left;
the apples slipped from my infant-school
fingers to lie amongst the windfalls,
bruised beyond use.
I tried to eat one. It had the bitter taste
of realisation. I left it to rot.
©Stephen Beattie