Wednesday, 21 December 2016

Wednesday Metre - the last apple

The last apple is poised
It grips the branch, ever loosening
Teetering
With each breeze,
A golden globe bracing,
Holding its breath

Wondering
How hard is the fall?
Wondering,
Do I bounce?
Wondering,
Is this how it ends?
Squirrel fodder?

A tracing of its former self,
A shell,
A whisper of skin around
A softening core
The last apple is poised
For the door
To shut on the year
For the fall

Ozhene

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