Butleigh - Harvest
The apple press is where the apples go
From the tall trees where they grow
The amount of apples get wider and wider
But soon they will not be apples
They will be juice
Dripping down into a glass
Dribbling down the side so fast
Now the time to take a sip
All this from an apple pip.
-- Chloe Cheyne --

Different apples on streets of trees
Red and green blowing in the breeze
Sky is blue, long grass is green
Apples never to be seen
Carpets of apples in long grass
Waiting for the machine to pass
We think there's sixty tons of apples
Different types, even dappled.
-- Johnny Edmondson --

My dad and my mum
They love plums
But my friends and I
Love apple pie.

Apples so sweet
Apples so sour
Apples so easy to devour

First the blossom white
Then the skin that hugs the apple tight
After fall upon the floor
For me to eat good and more.

Fit for grannies, grandad's too
Also fit for me and you
Little children just want more
Because they are in apple galore

When the winter starts to come
We are scrabbling for the last one
But when the apples have gone
At least we have Christmas to come
-- Annabel Dukes --

Group Poems
Different apples on streets of trees
Carpets of apples
Crunching under my feet
Apples red, sour and sweet
Fit for all of us to eat
Rosy red apples
Waiting for its time to fall
Apples tempting, must have more
Falling bouncing once
Blue skies shining, reflecting
Apples cuddling the grass and bedding down
Bitter sweet and sour
Grass littered with apples
Apples red and apples green
Ever so sweet and ever so clean
Waves of apples like the tide
Apples falling like parachutes
I am the seed that grows the tree
That grows the apple
That grows me.
Pip Pip Hooray !
Carpets of apples disappear
Our feel of loss is really quite sheer
Love which is lost is loved much more
Each apple is eaten right down to the core
By horses, by cattle by people by sheep
An apple fills my belly before I go to sleep
-- Julia Sheills --

Hi I'm the pip
Called Pippa
Sigh. Nobody likes me
They throw me away
But then again
I am the one who makes the tree
But I'm never used,
Like the tree itself
Sheep's respect it,
Scratch them selves on it
Wait a moment
Someone is pressing
My apple, my house
My beautiful rosy red house
But somehow I'm relieved
I am tasteless
So they won't press me anyway
Pip Pip Hooray
-- Julia Sheills --

Carpets of apples
In the streets of trees
A city, a town, a village
Full of colour blending with the sky

At Hecks
Varieties of apples
Sinking in the tub
Of modern machinery
Apple foam flushing out
Noises and vibrations now combine
To make to some apple juice of mine
-- Jack Gane --

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